


Back to the Past

by Bitter_Baristas



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Family Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Mullet Grunkle Stan, Young Grunkle Stan, timestuck au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2018-12-21 14:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 65,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11945754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitter_Baristas/pseuds/Bitter_Baristas
Summary: Mabel and Dipper find themselves back in time a few decades before they're born. They also find a young Stanley Pines.Timestuck AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dipper and Mabel meet a much younger Stan than they're accustomed to.

The day had begun without consequence. Dipper and Mabel scampered from their attic bedroom, jumping over one another in a race to the bathroom. Downstairs Stan stood at the stove, calloused feet hidden in his slippers. Instead of Stancakes, breakfast was scrambled eggs. That had been the only change in routine.

Things had been, all in all, uneventful. 

Of course, things rarely stayed that way in Gravity Falls. 

Mabel and Dipper had run off in search of adventure, respectively taking a break from hours watching television and working in the lab. Stan was busy giving tours and Ford had holed up in the basement again, muttering about important work that Dipper best not help with.

Mabel had been eager to reclaim her twin from his ‘nerd work’, and the two children were soon running out the door without a destination in mind. It looked like a boring day lay ahead of them. Wendy and Soos were working, and Ford had taken his journal back under the guise of ‘reference purposes’. Really, they both knew he was just trying to keep them out of trouble. Luckily, or perhaps unfortunately, trouble gravitated to the Pines twins. 

It had been sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, innocent and not worth the attention of most passerbys. Mabel and Dipper recognized the device instantly. Mabel rushed forward, scooping it into her hands. 

“Dipper! It’s the time travel tape measure thingy!” 

“Careful,” he hissed. “You remember what happened last time.” 

Her excitement deflated. “Oh yeah,” she looked at it longingly and sighed. “So what do we do with it?”

Dipper touched his chin thoughtfully. “Give it to Grunkle Ford? He can put it somewhere safe.” 

“But someone dropped it, they’ll want it back.” 

Dipper frowned. Mabel was right. It was unlikely that the tape measures absence would go unnoticed. Unless... unless it had been left for them to find. But why would anyone do that? It had been in the exact middle of the sidewalk, impossible to miss but inconspicuous to anyone not privy to its real power. 

“I think we should leave it here.” 

Mabel’s brow furrowed. She opened her mouth to question him, but his serious expression had her agreeing. “Yeah, okay. We’ll leave it.” She knelt to replace it, jerking away with a yelp when energy sparked from the device. It crackled hotly and a tangible light emanated from the tape measure, forming a dome around the siblings. 

She was distantly aware of Dipper calling her name, grabbing her arm over the disorienting roar of static and the heart stopping sensation of a vertical drop. It was like an airless vacuum had consumed them. The other times they had time traveled it had felt unnatural, but not this way.

They were going to suffocate. 

Had the tape measure malfunctioned somehow? She was certain she hadn’t caused it to do this. 

The light encompassing them faded, revealing vastly different place. They huddled together, holding onto each other fiercely, matching honey brown eyes wide.

“When are we?” Dipper whispered.

“Where are we?” Mabel echoed.

 

Stanley Pines had courted lady luck tonight. He’d hit a hot streak and now he had enough money to make it another month if he was careful. 

A gust of wind carrying raindrops blew back his unruly hair and he pulled his hood down, pace quickening to avoid the coming storm. He needed to get back to his motel and leave this state. His hot streak was, in part, thanks to the house not noticing his card counting. And Stanley knew better than to wear out his welcome in illegal gambling parlors. Someone would come looking for him, that was assured. It was also assured they wouldn’t chase him down to another state. A few hundred dollars wasn’t worth the expense. 

He was in the homestretch when lightning illuminated the dark sky. Thunder boomed, rain pattering onto the cityscape. Headlights cut through the night and the sound of tires screeching on pavement rushed past him. The man managed to hold his composure, but his heart hammered against his ribcage. The car continued on, however, uninterested in him.  
Stan exhaled a laugh, relief pouring over him like the drizzling rain. It wasn’t Rico’s goons, or the losers from that nights game; it was just some guy turning a corner to quickly. 

He was about to break into a jog when something made him pause. Was that… crying? Listening, he heard the sobbing interrupted by a hiccup and a girl's fearful voice. She sounded young…

Stan steeled himself and kept walking, telling himself that it wasn’t his problem. He couldn’t afford to get caught up in any drama; he was pretty sure he was banned from this state. The crying continued and his weak resolve broke. 

He followed the sounds to a dirt lot, empty save for two children clinging to one another. Lights from the surrounding apartment buildings faintly lit the courtyard enough for Stan to see that they were too young to be out alone. The girl, dwarfed by a vibrant pink sweater, sat curled into herself, tears streaming down her face. A boy wearing a baseball cap and a backpack was pressed to her side, concentrating on something in his hands. He said something that made her cry harder. Guilt flashed across his face and he shook his head vehemently, drawing her into a hug. 

It worked and her cries tapered into sniffling. 

They probably lived in these apartments, and their parents would be down any minute to call them in for supper. But what if they were alone? It would be so easy for some pervert to pull them into a van and no one would be the wiser.

Stan’s legs decided before his mind and he was crossing the distance to the children. He stopped short, realizing he would paint an intimidating picture. 

“H-hey, are you kids okay?” 

Their heads whipped up and the boy leapt to his feet, standing protectively between Stan and the girl. Stan held his hands up placatingly, wind blowing his hood back. “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

The boy glared at him, mistrustful expression melting into one of shock. He staggered on his feet, face paling. The girl, his sister, if Stan had to guess, fixed red rimmed and eerily familiar eyes on him. She gasped, miserable expression transforming to one of delight.

That was… a good sign? 

Stan stopped a few feet from them and knelt, mustering his friendliest grin. “It’s pretty late, you kids probably shouldn’t be out here, and in this weather.” He scanned the lot again. No parents had emerged to collect them. “Do you live around here? Is there someone you can call?” He had some coins he could spare, provided there was a payphone nearby. 

They didn’t respond, equally intense stares bearing into him. The girl was bright eyed, like she’d happened across an old friend. The boy stepped further between them, narrowed gaze examining Stan from head to toe suspiciously. 

“I promise, I’m not going to hurt you.” Stan opened his arms in a vague shrug, doing his best to appear nonthreatening. 

The boy still looked skeptical, but the girl darted past him and tackled Stan in a hug. 

“Grunkle Stan!”

“What?” He pulled back, but she followed his movements to stay pressed against him. Her grip tightened, her face burying in the crook of his shoulder and neck. 

Stan wrapped her in an awkward hug, despite his brain screaming that this was too weird. That hugging a random kid was not acceptable, but a larger part of him remembered being seventeen and needing comfort. 

“Hey, uh, sweetie. It’s okay.” He gently pushed her away, keeping her at arm's length. Tears had left trails on her dirt smudged face and her hair was a tangled mess.

“Your uncle Stan, do you know where he is? Do you know his phone number?”

She shook her head, tiny balled hand moving to wipe at her wet cheeks. Stan felt sympathy blossom inside him. 

“Okay.” he thought. “Do you two live around here?” She blinked, looking around. The boy moved closer, looping his arm around hers. 

“Where are we?” he asked, stare not leaving Stan. 

He glanced to the nearest street sign. “Corner of Cherry and Elwood.” 

“No. What State?” 

Stan forced a laugh. “You’re joking, right?” He hoped the kid was joking, because he wasn’t entirely sure what state they were in, either. 

This was not good.

“What happened to you two?” 

The girl dragged the boy away from him, whispering. Their foreheads were pressed together as they argued, shooting glances at Stan throughout the conversation. 

What weird children. Cute, but definitely weird.

The girl waved her arms, tone pitching high. The boy sighed and nodded reluctantly. They spoke for a few moments more before exchanging a meaningful look. God, that was familiar. 

“We, uh, aren’t exactly sure, sir.” The boy said, stepping forward. 

“Do you know where you live?” 

If the kids didn’t know what state they were in, it was a long shot they knew their address. 

The boy shook his head. “We, uh,” he glanced to the girl, searching her face for approval. “We don’t really have a home, per say.” 

“You’re homeless?” God, they were so small. Helpless. What bastard excuse for a parent wouldn’t want these kids? 

“But were twins, so we have each other!” The girl exclaimed, throwing her arm over her brother's shoulder and dragging him closer. “I’m Mabel, and this is Dipper.” 

Twins. Sympathy transformed into empathy and Stan stood. 

“Names Stan,” the kids caught him in another hug before he could get out more. He chuckled, laying a hand on each of their shoulders. Affectionate little things. It wouldn’t be right to hand them over to child services. He’d met so many kids who’d run away from homes the system put them in, heard stories of children being abused and neglected. These kids deserved better. 

But he wasn’t exactly in a position to offer them that. He was scraping by as it was, surviving on scams and gambling. These kids didn’t know that, didn’t know who he was, yet they smiled at him like he’d hung the moon. He wanted to earn the warmth they so freely gave. 

What the hell was he doing? He should not, could not, take care of these children. Someone had to be looking for them, and if he took them with him they’d put him away for life. No. This was a bad idea. 

What was that saying? The road to hell was paved with good intentions? 

Fuck. Stanford had always been the smart one. Stanley made big decisions with his heart. Why stop now, when he had the chance to really help these kids? He could not, in good conscience, leave them here in the rain. How different would his life be if someone had extended him the same kindness? 

“I don’t know about you kids, but I’m starving. Why don’t we get some food and figure this out?”

Mabel’s face brightened instantly, and Dipper looked more at ease. “Alright, onward then, little lady, young sir.” They each took one of his hands in their smaller ones, holding it as they walked. 

The diner, the only place Stan could see was open at the late hour, was mostly empty. A few drug addicts, a drunkard nursing a steaming cup of coffee, and him with two kids in tow. A waitress led them to a table, scurrying off to get their drinks. 

They almost looked normal, Stan mused. A dad and his two kids eating dinner, or would it be breakfast? 

“Mr. Stan?” 

“Huh? What did you say, sweetie?” 

Mabel smiled at the nickname, which was coming out every other time he addressed her. Were those braces? What parent springs for braces and then decides they don’t want their kids? Or maybe, he thought, they didn’t have parents. They could be orphans. He almost missed her question again in the whirl of his thoughts. 

“What can we get?” 

That was a good question. He hadn’t bothered looking at the menus, too busy trying to think things through. 

“Look Mabel, pancakes.” Dipper pointed to the menu and she bounced eagerly. 

“Ooh, can we get pancakes, Stan?” 

He followed the boys finger and saw that it was one of the cheapest items. A kid after his own heart. 

“Of course you can, pumpkin.” 

Dipper snickered, “what are you going to start calling me?” 

“Booger brain, if you aren’t careful.” 

The boy’s mouth quirked into a fond smile, reminding Stan of the smile he’d seen on his own twin years ago. A lopsided twist of the lips that made his eyes crinkle, a quiet kind of smile unlike the toothy grin Ford got when he solved a particularly difficult equation. 

“Are you guys ready?” the waitress had returned, pencil pressed to paper expectantly. 

“I’ll have a cheese burger with fries, and the gremlins will have pancakes.” Stan handed her the menus.

“More coffee, sir?” 

“Thanks.”

“And can your kids have some hot chocolate,” she winked at the twins. “On the house, of course.” 

These kids were proving to be good karma already. “That would be wonderful, thanks honey, er, wasp.” He flashed his woman-winning smile, the one that usually got him slapped in the end. She laughed. 

Their food arrived soon, Dipper and Mabel inhaling their syrup drenched pancakes. Stan felt a pang of sadness. When was the last time they’d had a proper meal? 

He’d normally dine and dash, but the two faces watching him from across the table stopped him. Grumbling, he threw a few bills on the table and the three of them made their way back to his motel. 

 

Dipper tangled his fingers with Mabel’s as they followed Stan. He knew that Stan was ultimately a good person, foolish if he was going to let them accompany him in his nomadic lifestyle, but a good person nonetheless. Stan was in a bad place during this part of his life. It wasn’t safe to be around him, but the alternative was being stranded by themselves. 

They needed to convince Stan he was their best possible option before he wised up and turned them over to the authorities. What was the best way to do that? Tell him they were his great niece and nephew from the future? This Stan wouldn’t have the openness of mind their Grunkle had from living in Gravity Falls. He’d think it was an elaborate scam or have them locked in a looney bin. 

Mabel squeezed his hand, bumping her shoulder into his. Her mute way of assuring him that everything would work out. She probably believed it, too. She also probably wanted to prevent the fight that separated Ford and Stan for thirty years. 

“You kids can take the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor.” Stan told them, turning the key in the lock. Inside he shed his jacket and shoes, thumb jerking to the bathroom. “You’ll probably want to shower,” he left out that the commodity of running water was not something he had often. 

Dipper motioned for Mabel to go ahead of him. “Save me some hot water!” he yelled after her, the girls response a cackle. 

He shuffled awkwardly, torn between speaking and silence. Should they tell him? Would Stan believe that they were from the future? Would he help them? Dipper flopped back on the bed, pulling the tape measure from his pocket. 

A crack had splintered its casing, revealing intricate hardware-like circuitry inside. It was either broken or had lost its charge, and whichever it was they weren’t getting to their present anytime soon. 

If they ever did. 

What an astronomical stroke of luck that they had stumbled upon Stan, and that he seemed prepared to help them. Did the tape measure have some kind of biological detector? Did it deposit them in this year in Stan’s proximity on purpose, or had it been coincidence? Had the device accidentally done this, or had it been manipulated? If so, who did it? Were Mabel and Dipper meant to find it, or had that been a bad stroke of luck? 

As intriguing as those questions were, he had no way of answering them. The most productive thing to do right now was focus on the facts. Fact: he and Mabel were in the past, a Stanley in his late twenties caring for them. Fact: the tape measure was broken. 

It was possible Ford could fix it, but would Stan agree to take them to Gravity Falls? Would their meddling in the past cause harm in the future? Was their responsibility as time travelers to leave things unchanged or to warn the elder Pines twins of the dangers that lurked ahead? 

“Thinkin’ some thoughts?” Stan asked casually, sitting on the mattresses edge.

“I just… don’t know what to do.” Dipper admitted, hugging the tape measure to his chest. 

“What do you have there?” 

Dipper opened his cupped hands to show him. “A tape measure?” He plucked it from Dipper’s grasp, examining it curiously. “Huh, that’s high tech.” he handed it back, expression friendly. 

Dipper’s heart ached. Stan was so nice. His mistakes didn’t warrant the reaction they’d gotten. Kicked out at seventeen, his twin lost to him for decades. 

“Kid?” A warm palm on his shoulder jostled Dipper from his thoughts and he met Stan’s gaze. “Wanna talk about it?” 

Dipper shook his head, blinking away tears he hadn’t noticed forming. Stan would do anything for them. Shouldn’t they return the favor? 

“C-can I have a hug?” 

Stan’s face, unwrinkled but recognizable anywhere, softened. “Come here.” He spread his arms, grunting as Dipper aggressively hugged him. He wrapped an arm around the boy, other hand petting his hair the way his mother did when he or Ford were upset. 

“Kid… I’m really glad I found you before some scumbag did, but you two can’t stay with me. I can barely take care of myself. There has to be someone missing you two.” 

There was. Stanley and Stanford Pines, thirty years in the future. In this year--1970 something?--they hadn’t been born yet.

“No, there really isn’t.” Chin quivering, Dipper swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat. “I don’t know what to do, Stan. Mabel’s counting on me. I can’t let her down. I have to make things right. I just… don’t know how I’m going to do that.” 

Stan was taken aback by the confession. 

He smiled. Dipper was a good kid. Protecting his sister. He could get a real job, give up on bad scams and make an honest living. The kids even looked like him; anybody would believe they were his. 

No. He was getting ahead of himself. No matter how irrationally attached he’d grown to them, these kids weren’t his to keep. They had to be runaways; but kids didn’t run away for no reason. If they were runaways, their living situation must have been unbearable. If the streets were better than their home, what did that say? 

“Hey, want to know why people call me Dipper?” 

Stan grinned indulgently at him and he flipped the lid of his cap up. Flabbergasted, Stan made his decision. 

If no one else wanted these kids, he would take care of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timestuck AU. I was on Tumblr and found some great art and stories about timestuck and thought I'd try my hand at it. I don't know the creator of this AU, if anyone knows please tell me so I can credit them. Seriously, Mabel and Mullet Stan is my favorite thing right now.  
> This is a little different from what I've seen, by having both Mabel and Dipper transported back together. The writing is somewhat more informal from my typical style, but go with what works I suppose.  
> Thank you for reading, and please let me know if you liked this chapter!


	2. Finders Keepers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes decisions are hard, especially when it's a choice between where you want to be and where you should be.

Stan’s snoring remained unchanged by time. Mabel lay facing him, transfixed. Thin curtains let in light from the street, making the rooms darkness less stifling. Stan had tossed fitfully for the first hour, but had since fallen into a more peaceful slumber. His square jaw was covered with five o’clock shadow, brown hair fanned out on the carpet. His face was no longer creased with folds of skin, but she could see the promise of wrinkles already crawling onto his skin. 

Even in sleep the tension had not been erased from his face. Lines of stress had not been completely smoothed, and it saddened her. He was supposed to be in his prime, yet a life of hardship had chipped steadily into him. 

Age had not stripped him of youths muscles and his soft stomach was not as distended as she recalled. In spite of youths charms, the Stanley she remembered was not this downtrodden. The Stan sleeping mere feet from her looked frighteningly wearied. His clothes were threadbare, his eyes steeped in shadows from many sleepless nights. This Stan was homeless, she had to remember. The Grunkle she knew had a home and food, his younger self did not. 

Beside her Dipper was drooling on his pillow, and she wondered how he had found sleep before her. This was the boy who stayed awake until his motor functions failed him. They were in the most terrifying situation they’d ever been in, and he was sleeping. 

“Dipper.” She shoved him awake.

“Auh!” he bolted upright, flailing. Realizing there was no danger he fell back, looking at her through half-lidded eyes. “Wha’ is it? Can’t sleep?” 

“Not with Grunkle Stan snoring. It sounds like trucks downshifting on the highway.” she joked halfheartedly. Dipper yawned, waiting for her to continue. It took a long moment for her to find her voice. “What are we going to do?” Her woeful tone helped coax coherent thought forth from the haze of sleep and Dipper focused fully on her. 

“Ford might be able to fix it.” 

“But...what do we tell Stan, or Ford? I mean, we have to tell them something.”

Dipper understood what she was trying to get at. He had been agonizing over it too. Ford would not help them without explanation, and he’d figure out sooner or later they were from another time. How could he not, when he was faced with a time machine? 

“You want to tell them we’re from the future?” 

Mabel nodded, “what do you think?” 

Dipper sighed and rubbed his face. “If we change things now… I don’t think we can go back home.” 

“Why?” 

“This is really confusing,” he confessed. “But, changing things now will change the future, right? We don’t know how it will change. The future we’d return to wouldn’t be the one we left.” If they managed to ‘fix’ the past and return to 2012, it was possible they’d be stranded in a future where they didn’t exist--or worse. What if some minute action in the past equated to a future they were never born in? The variables were endless. “I think this is… all or nothing.” 

She hadn’t thought of that. It did make sense, when Dipper said it aloud. Obviously changing the past would affect the future. That was the whole point of changing the past in the first place. What she hadn’t considered were the consequences. Of course they couldn’t rewrite their families history and expect to go back to the home they knew. That future wouldn’t exist anymore. 

It was a paradox. 

Even now, when they hadn’t intentionally altered anything, the future they knew might not exist. No matter how she looked at it, all the roads led to the same conclusion. They were trapped. 

Mabel grabbed his hands, her eyes reflecting the stripe of moonlight slipping through the drapes. “I want to fix it. We need to stop things from using the escalator.” 

“Do you mean escalating?” 

Mabel smiled weakly, a giggle lodging in her throat and turning into a sob. She swallowed thickly, heat rising in her face. She laid down and pulled the covers up to her quivering chin. The atmosphere was crushing and they let the conversation die, overwhelmed by the knowledge that they were abandoning one family for another.

Her arms shot out, yanking Dipper into a hug. “I’m glad you’re with me.” She mumbled, glad he couldn’t see her tears.

“Mystery twins?” 

“Mystery twins.” Mabel felt herself relax marginally and gathered the courage to ask one more question. “Should we tell them?” 

“...If we have to.” He gripped her hand. “Everything will be okay.” 

Their fate decided, the terror of the unknown ebbing, Dipper’s hand in hers and Stan’s snoring in the background, Mabel finally drifted to sleep. 

 

Stanley woke to stiff joints, groaning as he moved into a sitting position. Why was he on the floor? He spotted the childrens shoes and socks littering the floor and the memory of last night returned. Instead of regret, tentative happiness flooded him.

For the first time in ten years he had a family. 

The kids slept on, limbs sprawled and entwined. It reminded him of when Ford or himself had a nightmare and crawled into the others bed for comfort. The resemblance between the two pairs of twins was remarkable. Twins, he supposed, usually were similar. 

He dressed quietly, wanting to let them sleep awhile longer. He paused his packing as he watched them, realization hitting him. If he was serious about caring for them--and he wouldn’t lie to himself, he was already dedicated--he was going to have to make some drastic changes. Kids weren’t meant to live out of a car, and they were legally required to attend school.

A quick trip to Las Vegas, Wendover, or Reno would guarantee some fast money if there were any casinos that didn’t remember they’d banned him. But that wasn’t a long term plan. Gambling was fickle, the possibility of losing the money he had now a real one. And people he owed money frequented casinos looking for easy prey. No, he’d need a steady and mostly legal income, a place to live… why did he agree to this? 

Mabel stirred, legs kicking in her sleep. “Hamster ball,” she muttered, hands making a scurrying motion. 

Right. They were impossibly adorable, and twins. 

Stan shook his head and finished dressing. Sunlight was spilling through the curtains and they needed to start driving. The longer he stayed in one place, the closer Rico was to finding him. 

There was one person he could turn to. Ford had a house in Washington, or was it Oregon? Surely Ford wouldn’t turn him away with these munchkins beside him. They only needed to stay until he got a job and saved some money. One school year, two at the most. 

This was the perfect excuse to re-enter Ford’s life. The kids could pretend to be his and they’d make up ages to collaborate with Stan’s exile. 

He formed a quick, plausible backstory. A one night stand gone wrong, he found out a few years after they were born. The mother didn’t want them, and of course Stan wasn’t going to abandon his family. He’d get the kids to call him dad and Ford would have no idea. It would be his greatest con. 

This could work. 

He cast another glance to the kids, his hand on the doorknob and his heart swelling with affection.

Stan slipped out of the room. 

The sun was climbing across the clear sky and the morning was already warm. No new cars had appeared in the parking lot and his was as he’d left it. He would have to clean out the junk he’d let accumulate in the backseat. 

His destination was a payphone covered with graffiti and grime, but it had a dial tone. Stan punched in a familiar number, wringing the cord as he waited. He heard the click of the phone being answered, a beat of silence, and finally, “this call will be ninety nine cents per hour.” 

The voice momentarily startled him. It was older than he remembered, more smoke worn and less honeyed. 

“Hi ma,”

“Stanley!” The woman’s accent thickened, her voice sliding into a familiar pitch. “How are you, baby? Where are you, are you eating?” 

“I’m eating ma, how’s Shermie? That big, wow.” Nervousness churned his stomach and he squeezed the receiver. “Ma, do you still have Ford’s address? Yeah, I’m in the area and I figured I’d see how Sixer’s doing.”

“That’s wonderful, Stanley.” He could picture her beaming and the realization that he hadn't seen his mother for almost ten years hit him. 

“Ma, does he ever talk about me?”

“Oh baby, Ford doesn't call much.” Hurt colored her voice, and Stan cringed. “It’s fine, you both are off living your lives. My little boys all grown up. I’m so proud of both of you.” 

Stan laughed, “you should be proud of Ford. I haven’t done much to be proud of.”

“Don’t talk like that, Stanley. I miss you every day, baby. I shouldn’t have let your father do what he did.” She sniffed, voice cracking. 

“I’m okay, Ma. Really. I love you. So, uh, any psychic predictions?”

She hummed, and he knew her fingers were pressed to her forehead theatrically. “He misses you more than he says, and a little patience goes a long way, honey. And…” she gasped. “Grandbabies! I’m going to have grandbabies!” 

The phone fell from his hand and he fumbled to grab it. He shoved the receiver against his face, heart pounding and mouth gaping for a breath of air that wouldn’t come. 

“What?!” 

His mother's raucous laughter bounced through the phone. “I’m kiddin’, baby.” 

He gasped, hunching over, a hand on his knee to support him. “Ma, don’t do that! Gave me a heart attack.” 

He fed another quarter into the machine and they talked until he had no more change, forcing goodbyes and good-lucks. 

Stan lingered at the payphone. It had been so long since he’d heard Ford’s voice. He turned away from the phone. He would see Ford soon enough. After all, it would be harder for Ford to refuse him face to face. 

The kids hadn’t moved in his absence, and if noon wasn’t almost on them Stan would have let them sleep. 

“Rise and shine, kids.” 

They roused grouchily, hair amusingly dishevelled. “We’re hitting the road.”

They stopped only to put gas in the car. The kids in the backseat filled the first few hours with games of eye-spy and the license plate game. When they tired of that, Stan introduced them to a game he’d mastered.

“I’m going on a picnic, and I’m bringing a starving bear, Dipper is bringing a doorstop, and Mabel is bringing a machete.” 

They got a few more rounds into the game before giving up. 

Mabel and Dipper became quiet in the backseat aside from the occasional comment about the scenery they were speeding past. 

“Grunkle Stan, where are we going, anyway?” Dipper asked. 

Took them long enough, Stan thought. What kid was comfortable getting into a car with a stranger, even one as nice and handsome as himself, and show no concern as to where they were being taken? Maybe that's why kids got kidnapped so often. Apparently it was incredibly easy. 

He said none of that, instead focusing on the term they now had both used. “What’s a Grunkle?” 

“Oh, uh,” Dipper stuttered, as if not realizing he’d said it. “It means great uncle. I guess you remind me of our great uncle.” 

Stan threw them a smirk. “He must be a handsome devil.” His smirk fell, a somber frown taking its place. “You have a great uncle?” 

“No!” Dipper cleared his throat. “Not anymore.” 

Oh. The same sympathy from the night before grabbed ahold of him. Poor kids. “What happened?” He mentally slapped himself. Blunt as a butter knife, that was him. Luckily, they weren’t fazed. 

“He was taking care of us, but he… couldn’t anymore.” Mabel said lamely. “Could we…” she hesitated and Stan glanced to see her looking hopefully at him. “Could we call you Grunkle? Grunkle Stan.” She tested it and nodded affirmatively. “Sounds good, doesn’t it?” 

Stan thought about her request. They had each individually called him that, and he’d been planning on getting them to call him ‘dad’ anyway. Still, it felt like disrespecting the dead. 

“If you want to, but you kids know you don’t replace family, right?”

A chorus of agreement answered him. A thought then occurred to him, one that he had ignored last night in all the excitement. “Your uncle was named Stan, too? Huh, that’s some coincidence.” softly, he added, “Ford would love that.” 

“Isn’t it?” Dipper laughed. “So, where are we going?” 

Stan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “We’re going to see my brother, up in Oregon. Ever been to Oregon?” He asked it as a conversation starter, but when no answer came he worried he’d said something upsetting. “You two okay?” 

“I hear the surf n’ turf is great.” Dipper said meekly. “What’s the weather like?” 

“Cold, I think. But we’ll get you guys some new clothes.” He coughed, trying and failing to find a transition to the plan for when they arrived. “So, me and my brother haven’t spoken for a long time. We had a falling out, and if things are how we left ‘em, he’s probably still pretty mad at me. He might not want me around, but I can’t take care of you kids on my own. He has a house, and he won’t send me away for your sakes.” He hoped. “Well, what I mean to say is… I was thinking we could pretend…”

“To be a family?” Mabel prompted. 

He nodded. 

Mabel grinned brightly. “We don’t need to pretend, we ARE family.” 

Stan wiped at the nonexistent tear in his eye, wondering again how or why these kids had appeared in his life. 

“Well that settles it. We should be there in a few days.”

He knew the way he felt would be alien to any sane adult, but the almost instantaneous affection he felt for Dipper and Mabel didn’t feel misplaced. Years drifting from state to state and in and out of prison had hardened him. Made him think he was unlovable, or unworthy of it. 

These kids called him family, and what was stranger is he believed them. It did feel like they were family, like they’d known each other for years instead of days. That was impossible, wasn’t it? He’d heard of a term that fit his feelings. Kindred spirits. He and these kids were kindred spirits. Both wandering the world too young. In days they had him cleaning his act more than he’d done in ten years. 

On principle he didn’t believe in fate, but just this once fate seemed an appropriate description of the situation. 

Filbrick was right when he called Stan a screw-up, but this was his redemption. Taking care of these kids was what he was meant to do. 

And he planned on doing a good job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, chapter two!


	3. Stanley's Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan gets beat up. Mabel and Dipper cuddle the pain away.

It was late evening and the Arizona sun was dipping below the horizon to give the scorched sandstone a reprieve from its heat. The sky was a blend of dusky purple and orange, thin clouds shining pink. The rest area they’d stopped at was desolate, merely a weathered picnic bench covered with a tin roof and an unreadable sign. 

At the moment Dipper and Mabel were kicking up dust as they ran, a smile twitching onto Stan’s face as he watched them. 

He tore his gaze from the playing children and shook out his crumpled map of the United States, states he was banned from marked with X’s. That included most of the Northeast, Southeast, and Midwest. It was fortunate he wasn’t banned from Oregon. 

He squinted at the map, mentally planning the best route. They’d driven into Arizona that day, and while it would be faster to cut through Nevada Stan wasn’t sure he wanted to risk being picked up. They still had that warrant for his arrest. 

He had done the same thing multiple times in the past for quick cash, but the thought of being separated from Dipper and Mabel made him hesitant. Now that he had two children relying on him he realized how reckless his lifestyle was. Even if he switched his plates with someone else's his car was recognizable. Winning at poker wouldn’t mean anything if he got arrested. The kids would surely be sent to child services if that happened, and he couldn’t bare that thought. 

Stan bit his tongue as he thought about their dwindling money reserves. He’d gotten non-perishable food and water for the kids, and with his car guzzling gas they wouldn’t have much left. Praying for a miracle, he opened his wallet. 

A little under a hundred dollars. He grimaced. If they only paid for gas that might be enough, but being stranded on the side of the highway with two kids wasn’t how he wanted to spend his time. Stan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, the pressure of a headache forming behind his eyes. They were so close. A state away was his brother, unaware of the visitors heading for him. 

He needed cash. 

The man frowned, right leg bouncing restlessly. Gambling in casinos wasn’t an option, and he didn’t have many other ideas. 

Despite not having a plan he was itching to start driving again. His mother had always called him a free spirit, her son with personality. At age seventeen an insensitive principal said, in not so many words, that he was the worthless son. Destined to scrape barnacles off the docks and rot in New Jersey while Ford was meant for greater. Stan had known he wanted to sail to strange, exotic places, Ford his co-captain in the search for treasure and adventure. He knew he'd run away from New Jersey one day, and since leaving his childhood home he hadn’t stopped running.

Nowhere felt like home; so he drove. He drove searching for a place he didn’t think existed anymore. He drove in hopes that mistakes could be left behind in miles of distance, but he never out drove his regret. 

He'd grown up to early, these kids shouldn't have to. What was the harm in letting them be kids and have a few more minutes playing… tag? Mabel was shouting animatedly and chasing Dipper, his hat in her outstretched hands. 

“Whatcha’ got there, sweetie?” He asked, stretching his back as he stood from his perch on the hood. 

“A lizard!” Mabel exclaimed, now eager to show him. He peered into the forcibly borrowed hat, which held an irritated looking horny toad. He laughed, slapping her back. 

“Nice catch, kiddo. But I think he wants to go home.” 

“Okay!” Mabel dumped the lizard onto the gravel and it hastily scurried away. Dipper stalked over and snatched his hat from the girl. She grinned cheekily.

“Alright, everybody in. We have a detour to make.” 

“Where, Grunkle Stan?” Mabel asked curiously. 

“Just someone who owes me a favor.” 

In another few hours, they’d entered the outskirts of Nevada. The target was a rundown bar, its parking lot packed. He twisted to look at the twins, cornes of his mouth falling when he saw their uneasy expressions. 

“Hey, I have an idea,” he grinned too widely. “There’s a motel about a block over, let’s get set-up there and then I’ll come do what I need to do.” 

“T-that’s okay, Grunkle Stan.” Dipper said. “We can wait in the car.” 

Stan was ashamed that he considered the offer. The patrons of this bar hadn’t been model citizens years ago and he doubted they were now. Intoxicated low lifes would be coming and going all night, passing his car. It only took one guy to make one bad decision and the kids could get hurt. 

“No.” He said firmly, putting the car in drive and leaving the roads shoulder. 

The motel was more seedy than he cared for, but it was significantly better than the bars parking lot. The woman at the front desk was lazily chewing bright pink gum and holding a lit cigarette, gaze trained on a magazine. 

Stan cleared his throat and she swung her dull eyes up to look at him, unimpressed. “Want a room?” She asked, gnashing the gum with her yellowed teeth. 

“Yes, just for tonight.” 

She grabbed one of the keys dangling on the wall behind her and tossed it to him, popping a bubble before taking a long drag. 

Lobby bell jangling behind them, Stan ushered the kids past withered shrubs and an out of order ice machine. Their room held two twin beds, the covers marred with stains he didn’t want to know the origin of. A quick check revealed no bed bugs, which was honestly surprising given the ill-kept quality of the rest of the room. 

Out of habit Stan peeked outside to ensure they had not been followed. No other cars had pulled in since he had and he closed the ash laden curtains, the hastily hung rod almost falling from the mild use. 

“Okay, leave those closed. I want you to lock the door and use the chain. Don’t answer for anyone except me.” 

“Where are you going?” Mabel asked, her usual enthusiasm dampened with worry. 

Stan knelt and flicked her nose, grinning. “I need to visit an old friend, I’ll be back in a few hours.” He turned on the television for them and paused awkwardly in the doorway. “You kids be good.”

“You’re coming back, aren’t you?” Dipper looked, in that moment, years more solemn than a boy his age should ever look. It was the same face Ford made when he was worried, tears glistening in his dark eyes after he found Stan beaten and bruised from fighting with bullies. 

“‘Course I’m comin’ back.” He knocked Dipper’s hat from his head and ruffled the curly locks beneath. Dipper nodded, dour expression lightening. 

“You’re not going to do something illegal, are you, Grunkle Stan?” 

“Anything’s legal if there are no cops around.” He gave his charming, conman grin. Dipper shook his head, now smiling, and sat cross legged on the floor in front of the television. Mabel lingered at Stan’s side, conflicted. In a second her arms were constricting around his legs, and the next moment she’d joined Dipper on the floor. 

Stan watched them, two kids in front of the television. And for a brief moment he saw the ghost of two young boys in a cramped New Jersey living room, squabbling over what channel to watch. 

All of his memories of Ford had inevitably become tainted by sorrow, but this one came with a sense of nostalgia. There was longing, yes, but the hole that had been punched into his heart the day Filbrick kicked him out did not widen. In fact, over the past few days he’d hardly noticed the gnawing emptiness he carried inside him. The addition of Dipper and Mabel in his heart had filled it.

All the more reason he had to do this. 

 

The bar was teeming with people, and just when he thought the trip was a bust he spotted a familiar cowlick. He waded through the drunken masses and elbowed the person playfully. 

“What’s going on, Richy-Rich?” 

The man gasped. “Stetson Pinefeild, you son of a bitch, how the hell are you?” 

Stan shrugged, “needin’ some cash, you still do that boxing thing?” 

“Yes, yes.” Rich waved his hand dismissively. “Starts in a couple hours, c’mon. I’ll buy you a drink.” 

Stan would normally leap at the chance for free booze, to forget life's problems on someone else's dime, but knowing Dipper and Mabel were waiting for him stopped him after one drink. 

“What are you doing here? I thought they ran you out of town.” 

“Nay, that was Texas. Sucked, because they all had shotguns. I’m just passing through.”

“Alright, alright. Well, if you don’t get killed, winner gets three hundred bucks.” Rich sniggered. “But I doubt you’ll live.” 

“Still work like it used to?” 

“Yup, any idiot from the audience can challenge the nights victor. And tonight, that idiot is you.” 

Stan nodded, gripping the beer bottles long neck. 

For the kids, he told himself. 

 

The impressive basement was filled with shouting and jeering people, all crowding a circular clearing where two bloodied men were throwing punches. The smaller man thudded as he hit the concrete, Rich counting him out. 

All the scheduled opponents had fallen to the houses champion; a bald, six foot five man who looked like he could open a beer bottle with his teeth. 

Rich held the brutes hand up, speedily yelling into his microphone. 

“Bruce the Batterer wins again! Is there anyone brave or stupid enough to challenge him?”

Stan gulped, arms glued to his side. Fuck it. He’d be no good to the kids dead. He could get money some other way.

Rich scanned the unruly crowd and grinned when he saw Stan, desperately looking for an escape. “You, you sir. I saw your hand go up, get in here!” Stan’s heavy legs dragged him into the makeshift arena. “My fine sir, have you done this before?” Rich shoved the microphone to Stan’s mouth.

“Uh, no.” 

“No! Excellent! Alright, standard house rules. You two fight until one of you can’t. Winner gets the cash.” Rich backed away from the two men and slashed his hand through the air dramatically. “Fight!” 

Stan dodged the first few swings, never more thankful for his childhood lessons and the year of bare knuckle boxing experience under his belt. 

While Bruce had size and strength on him, he’d already gone through three other opponents. He was exhausted, visibly slower now than the start of his first battle. Stan just had to outlast him. 

Bruce landed a hit on Stan’s chest, knocking the air from him. He lunged in the moment of weakness, fist crashing into Stan’s cheek. Stan felt his skin ripple, blood gushing into his mouth. His vision flickered, but the pain took a moment to register. 

He staggered, miraculously staying on his feet. He spat out a mouthful of blood, relieved that the punch hadn’t knocked any teeth out. What happened next was a blur. He wasn’t aware of his arm pulling back or snapping forward, but he came to when Rich was waving his hand above his head, shouting over the crowds disapproving roar. 

“Folks I don’t believe this! Bruce the Batterer has been knocked out! Son, what’s your name?” 

Stan swayed, blood dribbling from his mouth as he mumbled a reply. 

“Stetson! Congratulations, Stetson.” 

Rich led him away from the arena and angered patrons who’d lost bets. “Good job, Stet.” He closed his office door behind them, clicking the lock. “Let’s get you your cash.” Rich licked his thumb and counted out the money. 

“I can’t believe I won.” Stan said, awed. 

“I can. I told Maurice to take a dive.” 

“I thought his name was Bruce--what do you mean he took a dive?!” 

Rich cocked an eyebrow, handing him the money. “What do you care? House made a lot of money tonight, and you didn’t get shorted, either.” 

Stan sighed. “Thanks, Rich.” 

“You’re welcome. Now, as much as I’d love to keep looking at…” Rich gestured vaguely to Stan’s face. “...That, I’d scram. Any fighting outside of organized--”

“Illegal.” 

He continued as if Stan hadn’t interrupted. “--Boxing events is not often regulated.” 

“You’re a real pal,” 

“I’m wonderful, I’m aware. Now get lost.” Rich’s warm eyes sparkled, at odds with his harsh words. 

Stan felt like he should do more to show his gratitude. Rich was one of the few friends he’d made in his journey across the states. Back in the day they’d gotten in and out of trouble together, but he was on a mission and did as he was told, leaving Rich and the bar behind him. 

No new cars had appeared in the parking lot, and after stumbling to his room Stan rapped on the door. “Kids, it’s Stan. Open up.” The lights inside turned on and moments later Mabel cracked the door open. She yawned and stepped aside, rubbing her eyes. 

She looked at him and shrieked. 

Stan knew he must be quite the sight. His face would be swollen, bruises already forming and blood crusted on his lips. 

“Grunkle Stan! Ohmygosh are you okay?” 

“I’m fine, honey.” A wave of exhaustion came over him, and a glance to the bedside clock told him it was four in the morning. “You two go back to bed, I’m going to take a shower.” 

He went to the bathroom quickly so he could wash himself, not to avoid the barrage of questions that surely awaited him. 

The lukewarm water cascading down him was tinted pink and stung the split on his cheek. Stan ignored the pain and lathered his hair with shampoo, uncaring of the burning it caused. Sweat and blood swirled down the rusted drain, and when the water ran clean he shut it off. 

He wiped the steam from the mirror, surprised to see the damage was not as bad as he’d expected it to be. His cheek was discolored and swollen, but he’d definitely had worse. His nose hadn’t even broken. Not a bad trade for three hundred bucks. 

Mabel and Dipper waited for him at the edge of the bed, tense and ready to spring into action. They got one look at him and did, the tension that had coiled in them snapping. 

“What happened?”

“Are you okay?” 

“Did you get mugged? 

“Guys, guys I’m fine.” Stan couldn’t remember the last time someone besides his mother had sounded genuinely worried about him. “Trust me, I’m fine. Couple days and this will be gone.”

“But what happened?” Mabel's fingers curled into his shirt. 

“I…” Stan rubbed the back of his neck. “I fought a guy, for money. But now getting to Oregon won’t be a problem.” His zeal was little comfort to the kids, and he frowned. “Lose the long faces, I’ll be fine.” He stood. “Try and get some more sleep. Tomorrow, we’re going to Gravity Falls.” 

Stan woke once during the night to find Mabel and Dipper nestled against him, sleeping soundly. His bed was cramped, and the other bed empty, but they all slept well that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're so close! I admit this was a bit rushed because I'm eager to start chapters with Ford and Fiddleford; and I can't write non-chronologically. Hope you liked it anyway.


	4. New in Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a strong, triggering theme of suicidal thoughts and tendencies. I do not find it plot relevant enough to add in the tags, so I'm warning you now.

The highway stretched endlessly before him, each blurred moment of passing scenery bringing him closer to Stanford. 

The last time he’d seen his brother was in New Jersey, across the country. What had Ford done with his life? Stan had gotten snippets of information from their mother, like that Ford had graduated top of his class and was living in Gravity Falls, but Ford was worse at calling home than Stan.

His own brother would be a stranger to him. 

The person he was supposed to always be there for would be alien to him. Inseparable pirates on Glass Shard Beach to years of silence, broken by pathetic mid-night calls and hang ups. Had Ford known the night Stanley was kicked out was the beginning of a decade of estrangement, would he have reacted differently? 

If they had chanced across one another's path, would things have been different?

The loss he’d felt was as if someone had died. He grieved and drank the world away. In the haze of traveling from state to state, he ended up in Michigan. It was the middle of winter and his Diablo wouldn’t start. He was stranded in rural Michigan, his car refusing to start, and nothing to keep warm but his clothes and a blanket. He thought he was going to die there, alone and cold and unforgiven. 

His car, his rock through everything, had become an icebox and a coffin. Shivering in his seat, he turned the rearview mirror to face him. He pretended the reflection was Ford, and told himself how sorry he was, how much he’d missed Stanley. Each word came out in puffs of vapor, oxygen converting to carbon dioxide. He thought that had been the end, but when sleep lulled him and death ebbed closer a state trooper knocked on his window. 

Stan had been almost disappointed to be saved. His entire life, he was the screw-up, the shadow to the good son. As a baby he was the one who cried well into the night; it would have been fitting to go out quietly. But he lived. The next time Ford saw him, it would not be to identify a body or at a funeral, it would be at his door step. 

And the reasons were in the back seat, playing eye-spy. 

All those years ago he’d been ready to die. Played with his life fast and reckless in hopes that it would bring about a premature end. Yet when it came down to it, he was too much of a coward to finish things himself. Even now, in his glove box, was a loaded handgun. One that he’d pressed to his temple, felt its cold metal on his skin and the terrifying temptation of his finger on the trigger. 

What had been in the peripherals of his mind his entire life was at the forefront, undeniable and deafening. He was worthless. The twin no one would miss. He was loud and lazy and made trouble, and Ford was effortlessly bright. Stan’s childhood was a constant comparison to something he couldn’t possibly live up to. 

If he only pulled the trigger, it would be over. 

The thought, the nagging thought that always came, gave him pause. What was one more day? He could make it one more day, couldn’t he? But why should he? His life wasn’t working. Death; death could work.

Consumed with the idea that the world would be better without him, his trembling finger was one motion away from the end. 

More thoughts cluttered his mind. 

Who would find him? His head splattered on the upholstery, bits of shattered skull and grey squiggles of brain sprayed across the windows. Blood pooled and stagnant beneath him. When would they find him? Hours later, days, months? How long would his rotting body bake in his car? 

Realistically he knew that if he only got the courage, all his problems could be over in an instant. Who found him or when wouldn’t be his problem. 

As it turned out, it wouldn’t be anyone's problem. 

Whatever flimsy excuse had stopped him, he put the gun in his glove box. Waiting there like a sleeping snake. Suicide, he reasoned, was always an option. He never lost the opportunity; it was there for him, waiting.

One more day turned into a week, a month, years. Eventually the thought, ever present, faded into the emptiness of his mind. Life marched on. It didn’t get good, but it got better. 

Then the thought was dismissed entirely. 

Dipper and Mabel entered his life, made it instantly worth living. He couldn’t die, not when two kids depended on him. No one before them truly needed him and it was a good feeling.

He hoped that Ford would feel the same way, when he showed up on his doorstep uninvited and needing his help. 

He hoped, but he wasn’t optimistic. 

 

Nevada desert eventually turned to Oregon greenery. Stan was a bit shocked by the scenery, although he wasn’t sure why. It was late August, so the sunshine shouldn’t have come as a surprise. He’d just always pictured Oregon in a perpetual winter, the same way he pictured constant rain in Washington. But it was summer, and there was no snow blanketing the foliage. 

Ford was hours away. The distance between them was no longer states or oceans, but scant miles. 

What would he say, what would he do? Would he be happy to see him? 

What did you say to someone after ten years of silence? 

“--sorry.” Mabel’s voice cut into his increasingly self-loathing thoughts.

“What did you say, sweetie?” 

She smiled, head quirking to one side. “Tell him you’re sorry. And that you missed him.” 

Had he said that aloud? 

“Sorry, huh?”

Mabel nodded, looking completely confident in her advise. It warmed his heart. It was so simple, so innocent. Through her child's eyes the solution was to apologize and everything would resolve itself. From his world weary vantage, Stan knew that it was more complicated than that, but perhaps not as complicated as he was anticipating. Mabel’s suggestion had merit. 

Sorry didn’t convey the total remorse he felt, but it was a start. The night Ford confronted him, he hadn’t apologize. In his mind he’d said he was sorry a million times, but Ford hadn’t gotten to hear him. 

Ford was as smart as Stan was thoughtless, but that didn’t make him emotionless. When Stan broke his science fair project, albeit it accidentally, Ford took it as a personal attack. If Stan had taken the time to explain things properly, Filbrick would have still probably kicked him out, but their relationship might have been salvaged. 

In hindsight, Stan could identify his errors, but in the heat of the moment he never could. His emotions controlled him, and his fists hurt physically what hurt him emotionally. With the clarity of looking back, he could find dozens of ways to avoid his fate. 

He could have avoided the gym, he could have not pounded on the table, he could have told Ford the truth before the science fair and they could have fixed it. 

He could have chosen not to disappear for almost ten years. If Ford had wanted to contact him, how could he have? He didn’t know where Stan was, and most of the time Stan didn’t know where he was going. No address, no phone number, how was Ford supposed to reach out if he didn’t know where to look? 

Looking back, Stanley saw many ways things could have ended differently. None of that mattered now. The past was in the past, and no amount of wishing would change it. 

“Thanks, pumpkin.” 

“Don’t worry, Grunkle Stan. Everything will work out because of the power of…”

“...Love?”

“Mabel!” She grinned as if it were an inside joke, and although it didn’t make much sense to Stan he was glad to be included. 

“Mabel thinks she’s a matchmaker.” Dipper grumbled good-naturedly.

“Relationship healer!” Mabel clarified. “Come on, could you stay mad at this face?” She pushed her cheeks together, tongue sticking out. 

“Maybe not, but Ford’s not mad at you.” 

Mabel shrugged. “We’ve got enough cuteness for the three of us, don’t we Dipper?” She slung an arm around his shoulders and drew him against her. She grinned widely, and Dipper gave a close-lipped, shy smile.

“We were just like you two,” Stan said wistfully. Nostalgia turned to bitterness. “And look where we are now.” 

“What happened?” Mabel asked tentatively. 

He deflated. “Nothing you need to worry about. We were young and dumb, and I messed up. I… I really didn’t mean to, but I kinda ruined his life.” 

He heard the click of a seatbelt being released, followed by Mabel clambering into the passenger's seat. Behind her Dipper had shifted to sit in the middle of the back seat, both watching him with what looked to be a mix of concern and sympathy. 

“Everybody comfy?” Quick nods answered him. “My brother, Stanford, was born with six fingers on each hand and he’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. We were best friends.”

He told them, skimming over the details, about their childhood, right up to the last time they’d seen each other. 

“We got into a big fight when we were seventeen, and my father kicked me out. He said I could come home when I made the potential millions I had cost Ford. You see, he was going to go to this fancy school if he got a scholarship from his science fair project, but I…” His tongue swelled and wetness blurred his vision. “I broke it. I didn’t mean to, but I did. And I didn’t even tell Ford. We haven’t talked or seen each other in almost ten years because of it.” 

He glanced to Mabel, alarmed to see tears pouring down her face. “Woah, don’t cry! It’s, uh, it’s okay.” 

He hadn’t expected that to work, and was surprised when it did. Mabel wiped her tears away with her sleeve, hands forming fists in sheer determination that was out of place on a child's face. 

“Everything WILL be okay.” She affirmed, again totally convinced. “You’re not a screw-up, Grunkle Stan. Where would we be without you?” 

It was a genuine question, and Stan prefered not to think about the answers. 

“Well, we’re here now.” 

 

Douglas Firs, Junipers, and Pines fringed the serpentine road. While the green blur had bored Mabel, Dipper had looked out the smudged bus window most of the trip. All the billboards they’d passed the first drive in no longer existed. Now that they were in familiar territory the changes of thirty years were stark. Much of the industrialization hadn’t happened yet, and the road splitting the vast forest was not lined with gas stations or other buildings. 

When they drove into town, it was not on pothole infested roads but new pavement. The buildings all had bright paint and everything looked well-kept. A shudder ran up Dipper’s spine, the realization of their situation fully hitting him. 

Instead of going to the Mystery Shack (well it wasn’t the Mystery Shack yet, was it? It might never be.) Stan turned into Greasy’s Diner. The log shaped building wasn’t weathered and its sign was glossy instead of peeling. 

Stan looked to both of them, smiling nervously. 

“Let’s get something to drink before we go see my brother, huh?” 

He was obviously anxious, and it was out of character for the Stan Dipper knew. Their Grunkle was a crotchety old man, who was rarely apologetic or timid. This was the same man, except he wasn’t. He wasn’t the man they’d known to pay with bad counterfeits for Summerween supplies or use smoke bombs to escape angry mobs. 

This Stan was a child in comparison, young and unsure of himself. Maybe their Stan had been unsure of himself, but they’d never been privy to see his self-doubt. Dipper felt a sudden need to protect this younger version of his Grunkle. The man who had punched his way through an ocean of zombies to save them, the man who had left hooked a pterodactyl in the eye to save Waddles. The knowledge that they would most likely never see their Stan again made the need to protect this Stan all the more pressing. 

Dipper and Mabel stepped in line with Stan as they walked into the diner, closer than they normally might have. A familiar face, both eyes open and laden with blue eye shadow, met them. 

“Hi! I’m Suzan, you folks can sit right here!” Her brown hair bounced as she led them to a booth. “Can I get you something to drink?” 

“Water,” Stan croaked. 

“Water for you, and what about these cutie pies?” She smiled at them, seemingly completely unchanged despite being thirty years younger. 

“Water’s good, thanks.” Dipper did his best to look at ease, but inside he felt as nervous as Stan looked. 

Suzan walked away, humming off-key to herself. 

Stan hunched over the table, hands clasped and breathing labored. Was he having a panic attack? Dipper used to get them when he and Mabel started kindergarten, and it certainly looked like he was having a panic attack. 

“Stan, if you want to leave, we can.” Dipper wondered how an adult's voice came out of his mouth. “We don’t have to stay, we can go back to the car or go for a walk.” 

Stan looked up, eyes wide and frenzied. Dipper kept going, remembering all the times Mabel or his parents had talked him out of a panic attack. “Breathe, Stan. Breathe.”

His eyes shut and the man inhaled deeply. He did it twice more before his shoulders slumped, relaxed. 

“Thanks, kid.” 

Suzan came with their drinks, and when Stan said that was all they’d be having she brought them all a slice of pie, too. Stan awkwardly flirted with her, left a tip, and then they were back where they started. 

They stood outside of the car, tension thick around them. 

“Sorry kids, I’m just…”

“It’s okay, Grunkle Stan.” Mabel assured cheerfully, although Dipper could see her enthusiasm was a show to help Stan feel better. 

It did, and he nodded. “You’re right. Let’s go.” 

 

Far from the rest of the town was a steep roofed, wooden house, encroached on either side by forest. Night had descended and the sky was full of stars. It was peaceful, crickets filling the warm air with their song. Inside, ignorant of their arrival, was Ford. 

Stan felt himself shaking and took a calming breath. He removed the key, his lifeline, from the ignition. The car doors slam was jarring and did not befit the calm night. Walking up to the porch filled him with dread, but Dipper and Mabel bookended him. Their small hands holding his made him feel a bit better. 

His knock, firm and insistent, did not represent his inner turmoil. His hand fell to his side, recaptured in Mabel’s tight grip. Someone shuffled inside and a light turned on. The door opened a sliver, the person on the other side peeking out. Suddenly, the door swung in to reveal a bedraggled Ford. 

The six-fingered man stared at them, jaw agape and eyes wide. 

“Stanley?”

Stan smiled sheepishly. “Hi, Stanford.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger! I'm sorry. Next chapter we'll definitely be seeing more of Ford, and possible Fiddleford.


	5. Stan the Family Man

Stanford Pines had not slept for a full night since he was a child. In highschool and college he worked long hours, leaving little time for rest. It was a ritual of sorts. He would work tirelessly and when his body reached its limit he would collapse into bed for the missed sleep. The record was sixteen hours of coma-like sleep, the weekend after finals. 

As an adolescent Stanley had always made sure he went to bed at a decent hour. As a young adult he’d had Fiddleford who would corral him into bed, complaining that his lamp and incessant pen clicking was keeping him up. The engineering student had grown up on a hog farm in Tennessee, and was accustomed to going to bed at sunset and getting up with the sunrise. “Early to bed early to rise, Stanford,” he’d lecture. 

After graduating and starting his research in Gravity Falls he was truly on his own. No one was there to interject suggestions of self-care, and physical needs took a back-burner to intellectual pursuit. 

His cabinets became barren, his bed a place for loose papers rather than sleep. The initial freedom was not long lived, and after fainting during fieldwork Stanford realized he was subject to human needs. 

He began to diligently take care of basic necessities, getting a minimum of four hours sleep every night, two meals a day, and biweekly showers. The schedule was bare bones enough to fuel his body while leaving ample time for his research. 

His home, built by a local lumberjack and his son, was in a constant state of organized chaos. Whereas his laboratory was fastidiously tidy, the upper levels of his home looked as though a drifter had come inside and haphazardly unloaded their belongings. Books were crammed into an overburdened bookshelf and what hadn’t fit sat in high stacks on the floor. Dishes were piled in the sink, growing their own ecosystem. Stanford hadn’t dared to look in the refrigerator. At some point it had to be easier just to buy a new fridge and pay someone to haul the old one away.

He had never been the clean twin or roommate. 

Fiddleford used to tease him about it. What good was being a genius if Stanford couldn’t take care of himself? Until he lived alone, Ford hadn’t seen the truth in Fiddleford’s words. 

When he asked Fiddleford to come up from California to help construct the portal, he was killing two birds with one stone. Not only did Fiddleford have the skill to make schematics reality, he had the common sense Ford lacked. 

Upon his arrival Fiddleford had been appalled by his living conditions. Since then Ford’s kitchen seemed to magically become stocked with food and mold-free. 

Fiddleford had yet to break his sleeping habits. Which was why he was awake, jotting notes in his journal, to hear what he couldn’t immediately identify. It was a rhythmic tapping on wood, to consistent to be a tree branch knocking against the house in a gust of wind. Fiddleford was upstairs and aside from a few well-meaning, albeit nosey townsfolk dropping by to meet him, he didn’t get many visitors. 

He made his way to the front door, certain it was the origin of the sound. Gripped behind his back was a paring knife. He didn’t know what he’d anticipated, gnomes or some other brazen woodland creatures perhaps, but they were never known for social edicate. Or it could just be some kids who had nothing better to do than ring his bell and run. But Stanford Pines had always been one to error on the side of cautious, except when he was risking life and limb to document the supernatural. 

Inching the door open, he saw something that had not been on his list of possibilities. His brother, face badly bruised, and two small children huddled on either side of him. 

“Stanley?”

Stan smiled, an apprehensive quirk of the lips Ford hadn’t seen since childhood. 

“Hi, Stanford.” 

Ford stared at him, wide-eyed and slack jawed. Stan shifted his weight and coughed, then put a hand on either childs’ shoulder. Trained to make quick assessments and judgments, Ford examined the children. A preadolescent boy and girl, likely related, with brown hair and brown eyes, their complexions fair. 

Something he hadn’t identified yet was striking about them, but the answer was given to him before his stalling brain could figure it out. 

“Ford, this is--”

The girl stepped forward and extended her hand, a dazzling smile revealing braces. “I’m Mabel Pines, and that’s my twin brother, Dipper.” 

Twins. Twins named Mabel and Dipper Pines. His brothers kids. Stanley had procreated?

He stared at her offered hand with a dumbstruck expression, then jerked when he realized he must look like a fool. Stooping, he shook her hand. Forgotten but familiar knots of nervousness tied his stomach. More self-conscious than he’d been in years, he hoped that she wouldn’t notice his extra finger. 

She made no comment about the digit, and perhaps stranger she seemed genuinely delighted to meet him.

“I’m Stanford Pines, it’s nice to meet you, Mabel.” His mouth tugged into a forced, uneven smile. 

She gave him an appraising look, and grinned again. “I can see we’re going to be sweater buddies.” 

Her words didn’t register at first, but he followed her gaze to his turtleneck and looked at her own pink sweater. 

“It would appear so.” He replied indulgently, the surreal quality of the situation still dampening his critical thinking. He offered his hand to Dipper as well, the boy slower to take it. His face had turned to the color of ash and after shaking his hand the child lurched to the edge of the deck. He doubled over, retching. Mabel moved to stand beside him, patting his back. 

Stan jumped to attention as well, palm covering the boys shoulder and the backs of his fingers pressing to his forehead. 

“No fever, why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” 

Dipper straightened, heaving. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” Stan cocked an eyebrow, and for a split second he looked like their father, unimpressed by Dipper’s reasurances. 

“Well I’d say spill, but you’ve already done that.” 

Mabel snorted, and Dipper smiled weakly at Stan’s joke. Good God, they’d inherited his sense of humor. Stan grinned at them, his face warming with affection. It surprised Ford, to see his brother acting so gentle with these kids. 

His kids. 

Stanley and his two children, Dipper and Mabel, were standing on his porch. Stanley, whom he hadn’t seen in years, was here. 

What was the social protocol here? He didn’t have time to contemplate that question because three pairs of eyes had turned to him expectantly.

“Would, uh, would you like to come in?” 

“That’d be great.” Stanley smiled gratefully. 

Ford nodded shortly and led the gaggle of Pines to his kitchen. “Would you like some water, Dipper, was it?” 

The boy flushed, his mouth flapping open and shut wordlessly. Finally he settled for a nod, face bright red. 

For as extroverted as Mabel was, Dipper seemed equally inclined to the opposite side of the spectrum. 

Ford handed him a glass, forcing himself to smile again. Dipper reciprocated the effort. 

The four of them stood there, quiet and unsure of where to go from there. Stan cleared his throat, running a hand through his mullet. 

“Can we, uh, can we talk, Ford?” 

Ford blinked and nodded dumbly. Relief eased his pinched face and Stan told the kids to behave before Ford took him to his study. 

Stan’s head swiveled as he scanned the room. “Nice, uh, decorating. It’s very… geometric. This that Buddhist stuff?” He shuffled his feet, mouth falling into a grimace. 

Ford crossed his arms, feeling old grudges resurfacing along with new disgruntlement. How dare Stanley just show up uninvited and without bothering to call ahead.

What would he have said if Stan had called him? If Ford was honest with himself, he would have refused Stanley. He was almost finished building the portal and having his brother and two kids around would be a hindrance. Continuing to be honest with himself, Ford found his own thinking scared him. Stanley had done a terrible thing, yes, but that had been years ago. He’d had a good life. Attending Backupsmore had been a setback, but it also put him in contact with Fiddleford. He wouldn’t have gotten half as far without the southerners help. He’d gotten generous grants to fund his research in spite of his degrees coming from a less respected university. Everything had, in the grand scheme of things, worked out for him. Stanley breaking his project had been an intensely disruptive hiccup in his life, but a hiccup nonetheless. 

Stanley, on the other hand, had lost his home and family. Cast out into an unkind world, friendless and nothing to his name but the car he’d fixed up. How had he taken care of himself? Ford was loath to admit this was the first time he’d given the matter any in depth thought.

At the time he’d been so angry at Stanley, and his anger clouded any concern he may have had. It hadn’t occurred to him that Stan might have died out there, by himself, and Ford would have never known. He’d assumed that Stan had landed on his feet, brushed himself off and gone on to live a decent life. 

Clearly that wasn’t the case. 

Stanley looked like he’d been hung out to dry. His clothes were falling apart at the seams and his shoes were held together with duct tape. A splotch of aubergine on right side of his face had engulfed the eye socket, his actual eye partly swollen shut. His knuckles were bruised and the man looked positively haggard. 

But that didn’t excuse his actions, not then and not now. Ford was about to lash into his brother when Stanley spoke, throwing him off-guard. 

“Stanford,” his voice was thick and wetness shined in his eyes. “I’m,” he stopped to blink the tears away, chin trembling. “I’m so sorry, Stanford.” 

Living in Gravity Falls provided many day-to-day surprises, but nothing had prepared him for that. 

Stan began pacing, progressively becoming more distressed. “I’m sorry for everything, Ford. You got to believe me.” He stopped and looked at him pleadingly. “Please, Ford. I need your help.” 

Of course Stan needed help. Why else would he have come? 

“What do you want, Stanley?” His voice came out harsher than intended, and Stan flinched. 

“It’s a long story, but we need a place to stay. Just for a while, long enough for me to get a job and get on my feet.” 

Ford turned around, hands clasped behind his back. “Why now,” he watched Stan from the corner of his narrowed eye.

“I can’t take care of them by myself. They can’t live out of my car, they need a real place.” 

“What have you been doing until now? How old are they?” 

Stan frowned, gaze downcast. “Almost ten--”

Ford cut him off, tone bordering on hysterical. “Dad kicks you out and the first thing you do is get a girl pregnant, where is their mother?”

“Look, it was a moment of weakness.” Guilt disappeared from his face, replaced with sharp indignation. “And I’ll have you know they’re the best damn thing to ever happen to me.” His shoulders slumped. “I didn’t find out for a few years. She gave them my last name, introduced me to my own kids as ‘uncle Stan’.” A bitter shadow fell over his face. “Well, she didn’t want ‘em, or me. I’ve done my best, but now I’ve got some bad people on my tail. Honest Ford, we just need a place to stay. I’ll get a job and save up, two years at the most.” 

Ford rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses and heaved a heavy sigh.

“You’re asking a lot of me, Stanley.”

Hurt and fear twisted Stan’s face, and Ford held up a hand in a ‘hold on’ gesture. “But I can’t turn you out with two children. They’re innocent in our… history. You may stay, for now, until we figure out more permanent arrangements.” 

Dismay transformed to gratefulness and joy and Stan stepped forward, arms open. At the last minute he caught himself, and Ford was almost disappointed not to be hugged. 

“Have they received proper schooling?” He inquired, already thinking about the upcoming school year. 

Stan’s blank expression was not promising. Ford felt his eye twitch. “They have been to school, correct?” 

“Of course they have!” Stan snapped, avoiding his gaze. “I just… don’t have any of the records.” 

“Have they been vaccinated?” 

“Look, Ford, we’re basically bums. I’ve been lucky to feed them.” 

Stanford inhaled, grounding his frustration. Stan was partly right. It would be extremely difficult to afford medical expenses and keep track of paperwork for kids he didn’t know existed until years later. More so if they’d been primarily living out of his car. 

The kids had looked well-cared for. A little weary from what he presumed to be a long car trip, but otherwise clean and fed. 

“We’ll figure that out later, for now it’s late, you can stay in the living room. The couch pulls into a bed.” 

He paused in the hallway, waiting for Stan to follow. Stan stepped closer than necessary and offered a watery smile, hand hovering over Ford’s shoulder and ultimately going into Stan’s pocket. “Thank you so much, Sixer. You’ll love these kids, I promise. They’re like nothing you've ever seen.” 

Ford rolled his eyes. “Parenthood has made you sentimental, Stanley.” 

“In a week, you’ll be wrapped around their fingers, too.” 

 

Fiddleford awoke to hear voices from downstairs.

Stanford had the unnerving tendency to debate with himself when he thought he was alone. He would talk to the empty air, pause as if listening to a response, and then mutter as he wrote something down. More disconcerting, the scientist would undergo drastic mood swings. One moment he’d behave normally, the next he’d be grinning like a mad man and chatting conversationally to no one. Fiddleford had been entering the lab one day when he heard Stanford talking to himself, looking to the vacant space beside him and saying “what do you think about that, IQ?” 

He’d approached the man cautiously, and Stanford whirled around as if he’d sensed the others presence. Out of his mouth popped, “morning, Bean Pole!” 

Stanford had shook his head, coming out of his mood dazed and confused. He claimed his behavior was the result of too much coffee and too little sleep, but from that day on Fiddleford slept with his door locked. He trusted Stanford, considered him a dear friend, but he wasn’t the same man he’d played Dungeons, Dungeons and more Dungeons with in college. Something in him had shifted from brilliant mind to mad scientist. Fiddleford didn’t know the cause, but the results were clear. 

He’d tentatively recommended Stanford see a doctor, thinking the problem may have been manic depression. Stanford insisted he was fine, and since Fiddleford hadn’t caught him in such a befuddling state again. When he woke to hear Stanford’s voice leaking under his door, he assumed the worst. 

Fiddleford slid into a pair of slippers and crept down the stairs, skipping the steps he knew would groan even under his slight weight. The door to Stanford’s study was shut and he pressed his ear to the wood. Stanford was definitely talking, but it was to another person. The other voice was gruffer and one he didn’t recognize. 

The slender man pulled away from the door, uncomfortable eavesdropping to a real conversation between two people. He idled outside the study, then made his way to the kitchen for a glass of water before returning to bed. 

The kitchen light was already on, and at the table sat two children. 

“Hello.” He blurted. “I reckon we haven’t met before.” 

The girl leapt from her chair and stepped toward him, head tilted curiously. She stopped a few feet away from him. 

“I’m Mabel,” she announced. “And that’s Dipper. We’re Ford’s niece and nephew.” 

Fiddleford’s brow scrunched. Niece and nephew? Ford rarely talked about his family, and had only tersely mentioned his brother once when Fiddleford pestered him about the subject. That must have been who Stanford had been talking to, these kids’ father. 

He smiled down at Mabel and knelt.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Mabel. My names Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. I was fixin’ to get myself a drink, would you like one too?” 

Mabel reared back, and he chuckled. “It’s a mouthful, I know.” He rose and opened the refrigerator. “We’ve got some apple juice, or water.” 

“Juice, please.” 

He handed her a glass of juice, soft smile still on his lips. “Anything for you, Dipper?” 

The boy motioned to his own cup, “no thanks. I’ve got water.” 

Fiddleford took a seat at the table, sipping his juice. “So, how old are you two?” 

Mabel looked off-put by the question, and Dipper came to her defense. 

“Almost ten!” He exclaimed. “We’re almost ten.”

“Double digits, wow. My son is six.” 

Mabel reclaimed her chair and examined him from across the table, zeroing in on a glint from his hand. “Are you married?” 

Fiddleford glanced to his wedding band and nodded. “Sure am, wife’s down in California.” 

“She’s not a raccoon, is she?” 

He sputtered at the question. “Heavens to Betsy, no! She’s a fine lady, pretty as a peach.” 

“Why isn’t she here with you?” 

“Well, I’m helping your uncle with something, and it was easier for her to stay home instead of moving up here.” 

Mabel leaned forward, hair falling over her hunched shoulders. “That’s good. Very good, raccoons don’t make good wives. Neither do woodpeckers.”

“I’ll keep that under advisement.” 

Mabel nodded seriously, fingers threaded together on the tabletop. Fiddleford took a long drink, wondering if all members of the Pine family were so innately odd. 

“You’re very nice, Mr. McGucket.” Mabel stated, and he blushed, wondering also why it seemed all Pines had a certain charm. 

“You’re very nice, too, both of you.” 

“Dipper, Mabel and are you in--” Ford walked in. “Oh, Fiddleford. Good, you’re up. This is my brother Stanley, and these are--”

“We’ve been acquainted.” Fiddleford assured. “We’ve been having a good chat, haven’t we?”

He winked at Mabel, and she grinned. Fiddleford stood, yawning exaggeratedly. “It’s mighty late, don’t you think it’s bedtime, for all of us?” He emphasized the last part, glaring at Ford. The man laughed uneasily. 

“Yes, that’s a good idea. Come along, then.” 

Stanford struggled to pull the couch out into a bed, and in the end Stanley and Fiddleford did it, assigning him the task of gathering pillows and blankets. 

“Honestly, the man can solve calculus, but he can’t pull out a couch or get to bed at a decent hour.” Fiddleford grumbled, shooting a playful look to Stanley. The man laughed. 

“I know, I’m glad you’re here to keep him in check...” 

“Fiddleford. Fiddleford McGucket, Ford’s assistant.” 

“I can take care of myself, thank you very much.” Ford snapped from the sidelines. Mabel patted his arm sympathetically. 

“It’s okay, Uncle Ford. You can’t be good at everything.” 

The scientist gaped, flabbergasted. Stan snickered. 

“Sweetie, you are wise beyond your years.” 

She preened under the praise, shrieking when Stan lifted her up and tossed her onto the bed. He did the same to Dipper, who squirmed in his arms. 

“Fiddlers right, it’s bedtime.” 

Once everyone was situated, the kids on the bed and Stanley on the floor, Fiddleford bid them all a good night. Mabel wished him sweet dreams and Ford gripped his upper arm, dragging him upstairs. 

“Nice family,” Fiddleford commented, struggling to keep the smirk from his face. 

“They just showed up! How could I tell them they can’t stay.” The man stared at him. “I’m not being rhetorical.” 

Fiddleford scoffed. “Don’t throw a hissy fit. They’re your family, Stanford. Heaven knows that maybe having them around will be beneficial for you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

Fiddleford leveled him with a dry look. “I do intend to go home to my family when this project is done, and you need someone to look after ya.” 

Stanford was going to refute him, but Fiddleford pushed past him. “Go to bed, Stanford.” 

Left standing alone in the hallway, Ford sighed. “I wonder what Bill’s going to say.” 

 

Stan listened to his brothers retreating footsteps and sat up. “And I thought I was the con-man. You guys were great. You kids really think on your feet.”

“All Pines do,” Mabel winked. 

Stan laid back down, contentment ballooning within him. 

A week ago he hadn’t dreamed he’d be seeing Ford again, or that Ford would agree to let him move in. He’d gone from homeless to having a roof over his head and two kids by his side in a matter of days. It was miraculous.

He almost believed the lies he’d told Ford, wanting them to be the truth. Mabel had said it; they were a family. Their pasts apart were over, and a future together was stretching farther and farther the more he envisioned it. He’d always valued family, and now that he had one he was determined to protect it. Getting a job wouldn’t be hard if he wasn’t picky, and he’d take whatever he could get if it meant providing for Mabel and Dipper. 

The horizon before him was full of new and terrifying responsibilities, and Stanley welcomed them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with how this chapter turned out, but at some point you just know its as good as it going to get. 
> 
> Fasten your seat belts, things are going to get bumpy from here on out. *Evil laughter*


	6. Paradoxically

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dipper considers the paradoxes of time-traveling and gives himself a headache.

Sleep rushed over Stanford like a wave and a sea of stars swallowed him. Floating in the space were scrolls rendering ciphers and pictographs, equations, and a clock with roman numerals. Multiple scattered books came together to form a mock staircase. Whether they did so from his unconscious command remained a mystery to him. The mindscape never seemed to bend to his will, but Bill was able to contort this reality with a snap of his fingers. He’d briefly said that humans had a hard time of grasping the concept that they were masters of their own reality. His tone implied that he thought the notion ridiculous. 

Ford walked up the books to a claw footed chair that sat before an ethereal chess board and tea set. Sitting, he waited.

A few moments passed and he began to fidget. It was unlike his muse to leave him waiting. Although he supposed he should be grateful that Bill had deemed him worthy of his time at all. Surely the being had other things of importance to do. He picked up a chess piece and gripped it in his hand, wondering if having infinite time at one's disposal made it valuable or worthless. 

“Don’t go doubting me, IQ.” The triangle popped into existence, swinging his cane as he walked through the void. He sat cross legged on the empty air. 

“Hello, Bill.” Stanford suddenly realized he had no idea of what to say. Bill flicked his finger and moved one of his ivory pawns without touching it.

“Something on your mind, Sixer?” He prompted. Ford relaxed, seeing the pleasant smile Bill wore despite his lack of a mouth. He moved his own pawn distractedly as he spoke. 

“My brother showed up tonight.”

“The one who broke your project?” Bill asked casually, moving another pawn. 

Ford winced, “yes, Stanley. It… has been years.”

“And you think he’s changed.” Bill finished for him. Ford considered the statement for a moment and nodded. He bit the inside of his mouth, considering his next play. 

The triangle sighed sympathetically, moving another piece as soon as Ford pulled his fingers away. “I’m sorry to be the one who has to tell you this, but people don’t change. They just become more of who they always were.”

Ford wilted and Bill perked up. “But hey, what do I know? You mortals are such transparent enigmas, all these feelings.” He wriggled his fingers, tangling them together to illustrate his point. 

“Maybe being a parent has made him better.” Ford said defensively, finding he didn’t enjoy listening to others belittling his brother. 

“Woah, calm down Sixer.” Bill made a pacifying gesture with his hands. Ford instantly felt culpable. Bill had been nothing but generous, he didn’t deserve resentment for telling the truth. 

“Maybe he has changed,” the muse said appeasingly. “That doesn’t mean he won’t be a distraction. Two kids can be a handful. You can childproof everything and they’ll still get in.” 

Ford laughed, apprehension draining away. “I… I think I want to give him a chance.”

“You’re too trusting,” Bill said, not unkindly. “But I’m not here to run your life, you do what you think is best.” He moved his queen. “I’m just concerned you’ll lose sight of what’s really important. I meant it when I said you’re going to do great things, but you don’t get places without dedicating the time.” 

The man nodded. “I understand, but I’m confident I can balance my time and energy.”

Bill hummed, “checkmate.” 

“What?” Ford looked at the board, astonished. 

“You’re thoughts were elsewhere, perhaps.” Bill said, eye narrowing slyly.

“I--”

“Sixer, I trust you. I do. We’ve come so far, it would be a shame if we tripped at the finish line, wouldn’t it?” 

“Yes. Of course, you’re right. You’re always right.” 

Bill’s eye crinkled. “Not always, you fixed those calculations, remember?” 

Ford smiled, “thank you for being so understanding. I won’t disappoint you.” 

“I know you won’t.”

The mindscape rippled and dispersed around him, leaving the comforting darkness of sleep. 

 

Mabel listened to the house settle around her. She stared at the dark ceiling, making shapes from the grains in the wood. This was the same living room she, Dipper and Stan had watched Duck’tective in, and yet it felt completely different. It was the same shag carpeting, the same wood paneled television set, the same stone and wallpapered walls. 

But Stan’s chair wasn’t there, a pull out couch taking its place. This wasn’t the living room they’d almost died of sweltering heat in, or the one where Stan ate ice cream and watched late night historical dramas, crying openly because he thought he was alone. 

This living room lacked the warmth of memories. She doubted Ford used it for more than research, if the dust gathering on the television and the papers that had covered the couch were anything to go by. She ached for her own time. Wished to fall asleep and wake up to a world where Stan was in his boxers and wife beater, cooking Stancakes and scamming dim-witted tourists. 

She missed Candy, Grenda, Wendy, and Soos. If she was ever to see them again, it would be through living from this point onward. She’d be in her thirties when Candy and Grenda were born. This time around, Dipper would be too old for Wendy. 

Tears stung her eyes and in image of Old Man McGucket flashed through her mind. A wizened, bowlegged man who had lost his mind trying to forget what haunted him. The man who built a lake monster to get the attention of the son he had surely neglected as his mind crumbled. The crazed, dancing inventor who lived in the town dump. 

The same man who had walked into the kitchen, sandy hair tousled and coke-bottle glasses on the tip of his long nose. Age had not shrunk him, and he stood tall and lanky. His skewed eyes had always held gentleness, but now the cobalt was clear with awareness. 

His first reaction to seeing two strangers in his kitchen was hospitality. Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, not Old Man McGucket, had a wife and son waiting for him in California. Her brief encounter with the man left her with the impression that he was very lovable. She might have been biased by knowing what he’d become, but Mabel felt instant affection for the Southerner. His obscure sayings, said in a soft voice instead of the constant yell she knew him to talk in, were charming. 

This was the man before the madness. 

Mabel dearly missed her time and family, but thinking about the fate that awaited Fiddleford made her feel better about being sent to the past. He deserved to live his life, deserved to watch his son grow up without the veil of insanity. If living in this time saved Stan, Ford, and Fiddleford from years of tragedy then it was worth it. 

The sadness she felt was not erased by altruism, but it did wane. 

She turned to face Dipper. He lay still, eyes closed and breathing even, but she could practically hear the cogs of his brain spinning. She snuggled closer to him, placing a protective arm over his middle. He stiffened briefly, and then relaxed. 

“Mabel, have you heard about a temporal causality loop?” He asked quietly. 

“I think you know the answer to that.” Her head on his shoulder, she couldn’t see his face, but she had the feeling she had caused him to smile. 

“Well, it means that when someone goes back in time, us, in this instance, causes the future they already know. It’s a cause and effect loop, that means that no matter what a time traveler does the past always happens the same way, because of them going back. Whatever the time traveler does it just causes things to happen as they already had.”

“But…” Mabel’s eyes squeezed shut. “What if they never went back in time?”

“That’s the thing,” Dipper said urgently. “What if reality is the same no matter what? Any time travel would just result in the same events to happen. It’s called a predestination paradox. What if… nothing we do fixes things?” His voice had gone cold, and it sent shivers along Mabel’s skin. 

She considered his theory, and cautiously embraced the flaw she found. “Stan didn’t mention finding us, and I think that’s kinda crucial.”

She heard his hair rustle on the pillowcase as he nodded. He was silent, thinking. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe that’s because he didn’t meet us.” Dipper sat up slightly. “And if he didn’t that means we must have made a splinter timeline, a parallel universe.” He began to explain in rushed whispers. “So, let's say everything up to the point Stan found us happened exactly as it did to our Stan, but we came here and he found us, that event leads to a completely different timeline.”

Hearing this assuaged the guilt Mabel had been toting with her. If Dipper was right, that meant they could have never returned home. That also meant that they weren’t intentionally choosing this time over their own. 

“So, us just being here could have prevented Great Uncle Ford from… you know?” 

Dipper frowned. “I don’t know. I do know that in the basement is a ticking time bomb for disaster.” A chilling realization dawned on the boy. Stanford had told him, and only him, about the partnership he’d formed with Bill Cipher. If everything had, up to their entry into this reality, stayed the same, then Ford was still in alliance with the demon. 

Why hadn’t Bill disposed of them already? Dipper considered this, and came up with another theory. If they had made a parallel universe, then it was possible Bill didn’t know their point of origin. They might have the advantage of being a blind spot to the ‘all seeing eye’. 

It was plausible, but it also raised the question of how Bill knew all that he did. Dipper knew from Ford that Bill was a being as old as time, and had assumed that Bill’s information came from being vaguely aware of all things at all times. But the problem with being able to see everything was that there was too much to see. 

If he could see the future, did that mean he already knew the end result? If he did, surely the outcome was in his favor, otherwise he wouldn’t waste his time. 

Or. Or he knew he was doomed to fail, and was desperately trying to prevent them from defeating him. That led him back to the predestination paradox. If both his theories were correct, then one of them was fated to triumph. Either it was them and Bill was trying to change it, or he was just working to his inevitable victory.

Dipper groaned. He wished he could ask Ford for help. If anyone would know what to do, it was Ford. Then again, this was the genius who had invoked the demon to begin with. An unlikely thought occurred to him. Stan. Stanley Pines, the man who professionally conned people for a living; the same vocation as Cipher. Stan would take one look at the demon and see right through him. 

But that would mean involving Stan in the truth, and that was something he didn’t want to risk. And there was no guarantee Ford would be willing to trust Stan over Bill. The bigger their web of deceit became, the more easily it would tear. Mabel, however, was already weaving lies with him. 

“Mabel, come with me.” 

The two maneuvered around Stan’s sprawled form and made their way to the kitchen. 

Silver moonlight spilled in through the window above the sink and provided enough light to make out the silhouettes of furniture. They sat at the table, heads pushed together and voices hushed. 

“Ford told me something, something he made me promise not to tell anyone.” he paused. “Not even you, but I’m telling you now.” 

Mabel showed no signs of the betrayal he’d feared and he continued. “Ford was working with Bill. Bill made him think he was a friend, and told him how to build the portal. Ford found out he was lying and shut the portal down.” He inhaled, and saw Mabel’s shocked expression in the dim moonlight. “The time we’re in now, Bill and Ford are still working together.” 

Mabel shot up, pacing. “Well, we just have to convince him Bill’s evil!” she whispered shrilly. Dipper said nothing, lost in thoughts no child his age should have to consider. Mabel stopped in front of him, gripping him by the shoulders. “We have to tell them we’re from the future. We can convince them of that, with all the stuff we know. Then we can tell them Bill’s an evil dumb-face.”

“Ford trusts Bill,” Dipper said. “He’ll listen to him over us.” 

He felt Mabel tremble, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He laid a hand over her shaking one. “And the thing that did convince him to doubt Bill was Fiddleford.” 

She sucked in a sharp breath, horror etched into her face as the pieces began to fit together. 

“He saw what was on the other side,” 

Mabel finished for him in a small voice, “and he went loony-tunes bananas.” 

She went limp, body pitching to lean against the table. “We can’t let that happen.” she resolved. Mabel straightened, a watery smile on her lips. “I’m glad you’re here to think about all this timey-wimey stuff.” Her optimism fell, “what are we going to do?” 

The short term answer was to irreparably destroy the portal and sever Bill’s access to their dimension, but that didn’t solve the partnership the demon had with their uncle. With Bill poisoning Ford’s mind, persuading him of the demon's true nature would be difficult without the seeds of doubt planted from when Fiddleford went through the portal. That was the key influence, and now that they’d taken it away they’d have to find another way to reveal Bill for the monster he was. 

Dipper didn’t know how they would accomplish that, but he did know that Bill was a monster. He’d rear his ugly head eventually, and when he did they’d be there to expose him. Until then, he decided, the best course of action was to keep Ford from completing the portal. And to keep the older Pines twins from fighting. 

He and Mabel returned to bed, but he lay awake long after sleep eased the girl's mind. If he fell asleep, Bill could get to him. But staying awake indefinitely wasn’t an option. He looked to Mabel, her face peaceful. He closed his eyes, tension lessening as sleep took him. 

That night he had many fragmented dreams, but Bill made no appearance in them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a very exciting chapter, sorry 'bout that.  
> This is where things get difficult, time travel/paradox wise. Hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	7. You Didn't Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. It's fluff, with a little bit of plot. I regret nothing.

Stanford awoke disoriented. He blinked, sitting up. It took a moment for him to recognize he was in his bedroom. He was used to falling asleep in his lab, or on the couch downstairs, and waking in his bed was a rarity. Seconds later he remembered why he wasn’t currently on his couch. Stanley and his kids had arrived unexpectedly and uninvited during the night, and had taken over his living room. 

The man felt a distinct prickle of irritation, but a much softer emotion tempered it. He was surprised to find himself happy to see Stan, and while he didn’t have a knack with children he was glad to meet his brothers kids. They were the spitting images of himself and Stanley as children, and their congeniality was infectious. He’d wandered downstairs in the early morning to check on them and had found the pair cozied against one another. Mabel lay facing Dipper and had flung an arm and leg over him, the boy’s arm curled loosely around her shoulders. Ford had frozen in the doorway, watching them sleep. The sight was precious, and he allowed himself to stare for a few moments. 

Both children twitched in their sleep, and when one jerked the other would groan and try to shift away. The offending twin would grunt and snuggle closer to the moving source of warmth. They finally settled comfortably against one another, snoring softly and oblivious to their uncle's melting heart. 

Ford would deny it, but he’d also checked on Stan. The man had done his fair share of squirming and his blanket had been discarded in the movement. Ford begrudgingly recovered the man’s sleeping form, rationalizing that if Stanley became ill either himself of Fiddleford would be forced to care for the children. Although he had no specific deadline for his work, he preferred to steer clear of avoidable distractions. 

He’d returned to bed, mentally noting that they’d need to get the kids their own beds. The image of them cuddled together was adorable, but sleeping in the same bed for a prolonged amount of time could lead to separation anxiety. Independence was essential to functioning as a healthy adult. Then again, he had to keep in mind they were only children. 

Confronted with Dipper and Mabel’s closeness naturally caused him to think about Stan. As children they’d shared a room, and when thunderstorms or nightmares struck they shared Stan’s bottom bunk. They’d fashion a flimsy wall using a sheet hung from the top bunk and pretend it could keep all of life's problems at bay. In reality, it didn’t even keep out the carrying voices of their fighting parents.

When the yelling became particularly bad, Stan would pull Ford into a tight hug and tell him fantastical stories about them adventuring on the open sea. They battled pirates, unearthed treasures and secrets, and by the end of the story Ford always forgot about their parents.

He missed that. Stanley had been born fifteen minutes after Ford, but he’d taken well to the protective role stereotypically reserved for the elder sibling. Whenever Ford’s emotions got away from him, Stan was there to ground him. If bullies preyed upon him, Stan stood up for him. He always became bruised in the process, but that made the effort all the more gallant. 

In the years of being apart, he’d forgotten what it felt like having someone who always had his back. 

Ford tried to crush the stubbornly persistent hope unfurling in his chest. Stanley had shown tremendous growth when he apologized. It wasn’t exactly taking responsibility for his actions, but it was acknowledgment of wrongdoing, which was infinitely more than the ‘look at the silver lining’ approach he’d taken years ago. Stanley had, aside from his irredeemable error in judgment, always been there for Ford. 

This thought struck Ford hard. In his anger he’d ignored all their happy memories together, and they’d faded into obscurity until being faced with Stan and his kids brought them back. In the wisdom that age brought, he felt sympathy for a young Stanley Pines. Ford had generally been the center of attention and praise throughout their childhood, the only time Stan got noticed was when he was in trouble. Yet Stan didn’t seem to mind, as long as Ford and he were together he was content. He never resented or envied Ford. 

He was proud of him. 

Ford swallowed thickly, for the first time considering that Stan was not completely at fault. With a sense of mounting dread Stanford realized he’d meant much more to Stanley than Stanley had meant to him. At least, that was how Stanley must have perceived it. In his selfishness, he was prepared to leave Stan with nothing while he went to college. For seventeen years they’d been a duo, and Stan didn’t know how to be alone. 

He’d put Stanford on the same pedestal their parents and teachers had, and he must have felt abandoned on the ground. With startling vividness he recalled the afternoon he walked into the principal's office, his mother and father waiting there for him. The principal outright insulted Stanley, and Ford did nothing but quietly wince. If a schoolyard bully, or even an adult, had insulted him Stan wouldn’t have thought twice about acting. 

He could hear Stan’s voice in his mind. “Don’t you dare call my brother a freak, you butt munching jerk!” They must have been about ten when Stan had said that to Jimmy Simmons, a seventh grader who had been whacked early by puberty. He had a good five inches of height and fifteen pounds on Stan, but Stan was a spitfire brawler. Jimmy, the leader of a pack of future thugs, had made the mistake of calling Ford a ‘six fingered freak’. Stanley’s reaction was instantaneous, self preservation vanishing as he launched himself at the boy, wailing punches on him. The two duked it out, resulting in Stan losing a baby tooth prematurely and Jimmy having a bite mark on his arm that didn’t heal for weeks. 

Stan risked his physical well-being to protect him, and Ford didn’t say a word when that principal openly scorned his brother. The brother who could easily hear their conversation from the other side of the door. 

Their entire adolescence Stanley had been there for him, and the one time he needed him Ford failed him. He looked the other way, letting the curtains separate them and leaving Stan below on the sidewalk. 

For so long he’d thought ‘how could Stan do that to me?’. Now he saw the other side, and wondered how he could have done that to Stan. They’d been teenagers, hormones and insecurities running rampant through them, and he condemned Stan for what had been the single lapse of years looking out for Ford. 

All those years he’d hated Stanley, and he now saw that Stanley had not been hating him. Stan had come to him, needing help and not too proud to ask for it. Annoyance was replaced with gratefulness. He had a second chance to be the brother he hadn’t been. He had the opportunity to help Stan and his children. 

And that was invaluable. 

Ford descended the stairs quickly, eagerness to greet his family spurring him. He burst into the kitchen, intending to cook breakfast for the sleeping Pines. He’d apparently been too late, and found his kitchen bustling with life. The smell of maple sausage lingered in the sun drenched room, mingling with a lively conversation. Stan stood at the stove, a spatula in one hand and Mabel dangling from his other, outstretched arm. He flipped a pancake and asked her something, his tone light-hearted. 

Mabel grinned and dropped heavily to her feet. “I think you’re doing great, Grunkle Stan!” 

Fiddleford’s elbow rested on the table, chin cradled in his hand and a smile gracing his features. 

“I agree, you didn’t burn that pancake as badly as its predecessors.” 

“Hey,” Stan snapped. “My cooking is...”

“Edible!” Mabel chimed. 

“Yeah! Gotta eat.” Stan patted his stomach, and Ford noticed how stained his shirt was. 

How had everyone become fast friends in the few hours he’d slept in? He felt out of place, like he was intruding on a family's private moment. Mabel, perhaps sensing his awkwardness, looked up. Stan and Fiddleford followed suit and the kitchen momentarily became quiet. Dipper, who had been buried in a book, also looked up. 

Mabel broke the pause by shrieking. “Uncle Ford your pajamas are so cute!” 

He glanced down, confused. The girl was right; he’d forgotten to get dressed. He wore pajama pants decorated with rocket ships, a gag gift given to him at a Christmas dorm party. His T-shirt, which he’d bought himself and had no excuse for, adorned an atom symbol and said ‘never trust an atom, they make up everything’. 

Dipper read his shirt and smiled. “That’s funny, uncle Ford.” he said. 

Ford coughed into his hand. “Thank you, Dipper.” 

Stan didn’t bother to stifle his amused look and plated a freshly finished pancake. 

"Don't just stand there, Poindexter. Gotta eat 'em while they're hot." He placed the plate at an empty table setting and just like that the pleasant atmosphere returned, unperturbed by his presence. 

"What are you reading, Dipper?" The word 'Dipper' was obtrusive in his mouth and Ford was reminded he had to ask what Stan--or the children's mother--had been thinking if Dipper was really the boy's given name. 

Dipper smiled and showed him the cover of a book that had been collecting dust on his shelf. “On the Origin of Species, by Charles Darwin.” 

Stan smirked, “I told you they’re smart.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Mabel agreed through a mouthful of pancake. “Dipper’s way into science and mysteries and spooky stuff. He read a bunch of Nancy Drew books when we were--” 

“Hardy Boys!” Dipper interjected. “It was Hardy Boys,” he laughed, cheeks reddening. 

Mabel blew a raspberry at him, “nuh-uh, you read Nancy Drew more.”

“I did not! And they’re basically the same thing.” 

Ford observed their playful spat, again painfully reminded of himself and Stanley. He chose not to dwell on that, and instead angled himself to face Dipper. 

“Science and mysteries, huh? Did your d--Stan tell you I’m a scientist?” 

“Heck, he said you’re the smartest person he knows!” Mabel provided helpfully.

“Oh,” Ford didn’t know how he felt about the flutter in his stomach. “Well, I study anomalies here in Gravity Falls. If you like science and mysteries, this is the place to find them.” 

Dipper smiled, the action reserved and bashful. It was as if Ford was looking at himself as a child. Stanley had been right, in less than twenty four hours these kids were already proving to be impossibly endearing. 

It was difficult to believe Stan had been their primary influence. 

Ford absentmindedly took a bite of his breakfast, tensing visibly. He swallowed and relaxed. Stan crossed his arms as he watched him, eyebrow raised smugly.

“Pretty good, huh?” 

“Ah, yes, actually.” Ford cleared his throat. Stan snorted. 

“Don’t sound so surprised. I had some help.” 

Fiddleford nodded approvingly, “the chocolate chips were Mabel’s idea.”

“They make everything better!” Mabel said proudly, vibrating in her seat from what Ford assumed was a sugar rush. Dipper closed his book and slid Mabel’s plate from her, exasperated expression an indication that this was a common phenomenon. 

She didn’t notice or care that she’d been cut off and continued to jabber. “I’d have made you some of my Mabel juice, uncle Ford, but I didn’t have the ingredients. 

“What in tarnation is Mabel juice?” Fiddleford asked before Ford could. 

“Toxic,” Dipper mumbled. Mabel ignored him and launched into a detailed explanation. 

“Pink lemonade, sugar, sparkles and plastic dinosaurs. But no pterodactyls, those guys are jerks. Blend it up with extra love and you’ve got yourself some Mabel juice.”

“Three times as potent as coffee.” Dipper quipped. 

Ford looked at Stan, aghast. “You let her put plastic objects in beverages and then consume them?” 

Stan held up his hands. “Hey, the glitter is edible… sometimes.” 

There were no more open chairs at the table, and Stan leaned against the counter sipping his coffee. 

“It’s a kid thing,” Fiddleford added. “Tate loves mixing up all sorts of concoctions. Kid thinks Tang and cola make ‘Dancing Juice’.” 

Ford nodded, chair legs scraping on the floor as he stood. He filled a mug liberally with sugar and coffee, the familiar burn on his tongue a comfort. 

“Keep adding all that sugar and you’re going to have a heart attack.” Stan joked. 

“And how do you take your coffee?” Ford shot back. Stan shrugged and gulped the remnants of his drink before refilling it with steaming, black coffee that he sipped leisurely. 

“Black, like a man.” 

Fiddleford, who had been rifling through the fridge, emerged with a carton of heavy cream. He plucked the sugar canister from where Ford had set it and poured an obscene amount of sugar into his mug, chasing it with enough cream to make his coffee pale. 

Ford and Stan watched him with identical expressions of disgust. 

The man shrugged, “we didn’t have hot cocoa.” 

Mabel gasped, standing on her chair and planting her palms on the table. “We should totally get some! The best way to make it is to fill the cup with mini marshmallows, so the hot chocolate fills the cracks and when it melts it’s a sludge of happiness. Top with whipped cream and eat with a spoon.” 

“My sister,” Dipper said with forced dryness, “sprinting to diabetes.” 

Mabel plopped into a sitting position. “Uh, it’s pronounced diabeTUS. As in, sugar won’t beat us!” 

Mabel’s and Dipper’s dynamic was entertaining and effortless, and Ford strained to remember if he and Stan had ever been that in sync. The kids contrasting personalities complimented one another rather than clashing. Ambivalent was how he broadly recollected his relationship with his own twin. They had been the others everything, and in the end that had been the problem. He hoped that Mabel and Dipper were not so dependent that they saw themselves as integral. 

Ford shook the thoughts from his head like cobwebs. They were children, he reminded himself. They had their whole lives ahead of them to learn how to behave as individuals. 

“Stanley,” he started. “I’m not using the attic for much. I was thinking we could put a couple beds up there and the kids could use it as a bedroom.”

His suggestion was purely practical. The attic was a place for storage, and most of the things up there could be disposed of. But the look of unadulterated joy that crossed Stan’s face told him he’d said something right. 

“We should also procure some new clothes for you and the kids, but until we get to that you can wear some of mine.” 

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Stan demanded. 

“Are you really going to turn down free clothes?” 

Stan glared, “you know I won’t.” 

Ford clapped. “Excellent.”

 

Stan gaped at his reflection. 

“I look like a nerd.” 

Ford scoffed, “don’t be dramatic.” He regarded Stan thoughtfully. The man now wore an oversized burgundy ‘Harvard’ T-shirt Fiddleford had given him when they were seniors. It had been far too large for his scrawny frame, but it fit nicely over Stan’s barrel chest and soft stomach. Ford had also managed to find a pair of jogging pants for Stan to wear, and because their feet hadn’t changed with their lifestyles he’d simply given Stan a pair of scarcely worn slip-ons. 

It was a massive improvement. Aside from his absurd mullet and black eye, Stan looked respectable. He stood straight, his legs together, shoulders back and his chest out. It was reminiscent of a soldier standing at attention, and in that moment Ford was reminded of their father. 

“You look like Dad.” The words left his mouth before he could think about them. It was true Stan’s stance was similar to that of their fathers, but otherwise he looked and acted nothing like the man. 

Stan shivered, “ugh, don’t say that.” 

Ford smiled apologetically. “Sorry, it’s just that… you’re a father now.”

Stan shifted and looked away. “Yeah, I know, Sixer.”

“Does Ma know?” 

Stan jerked, “no!” Ford recoiled, and Stan breathed in. “No, and you can’t tell her.”

“Stanley, she deserves to kn--”

Stan cut him off. “No, she doesn’t.” he said flatly. “The last thing she needs to know is that I knocked a girl up, didn’t marry her, and wasn’t even there for my kids when they were born. Pa already hates me enough, I don’t need this too.” 

Ford frowned, eyebrows tilting upwards. “Dad doesn’t hate you.” 

Stan’s face darkened, and Ford knew he’d touched upon a sore subject. 

“Don’t you dare say he didn’t hate me.” He advanced, jabbing a finger at Ford’s chest.

“Stanley I didn’t--”

“No. You don’t talk right now. Right now you listen.” Flames shone in his eyes and Ford shut his mouth obediently. “You don’t get it. Dad always took it easy with you. He didn’t see a lick of potential in me. And he didn’t hesitate to tell me that. The only things I did right by him was fixing that car and making sure you didn’t get picked on. You don’t get to stand there and say Dad didn’t hate me because Dad never hit you.” 

Outside the sun was high and the afternoon was warm, but when Stanley said that it seemed as if the room was freezing. Ford stared at him wide eyed, any retort gone from his mind.

“Dad hit you?” His voice wobbled, and Ford wasn’t sure he wanted the answer. Stan folded into himself. 

“...Yeah. On bad days when I’d do something he’d just explode.”

“But--you, how did he--” How had Stanley hid that from him? From their mother? 

“I always just said I’d been fighting with kids from school.” 

Nausea gripped Ford’s innards. How many times had Stan told him not to worry about his newest bruises, that they were just from some stupid kid? A six-fingered hand slapped over his mouth and Ford clutched at his stomach. Tears caught in his lashes and smeared his glasses. 

“Ford?” 

His only reply was to shake his head, eyes squeezed shut and tears flowing unbidden down his face. Stan’s mouth flapped open and shut, and he finally enveloped Ford in a crushing hug. Ford stilled and then threw his arms around him. 

In so many ways he’d failed Stanley. He’d considered himself smart as a child, more observant than his peers, but their father had been abusing Stan and he’d never known. An awful thought occurred to him. Stan had gotten into fights since they were young, usually defending Ford’s honor, at what age had Filbrick started targeting him? He could picture his brother, the brother who was always sunburnt and grinning, backed into a corner as Filbrick towered above him. 

And Ford had done nothing. 

Stan was running a hand along his back soothingly, making shushing sounds as he supported Ford’s weight. The last time he’d broken down so severely was when he was working on his first PhD. He’d worked three nights straight, sustained by coffee and instant noodles, and what pushed him over the edge was that his pen ran out of ink. Fiddleford found him sobbing on the floor, babbling incoherently. Fiddleford hadn’t known what to do, and had settled for a quick embrace before sending him to bed. 

He hadn’t known how to defuse his minefield of emotions, not like Stanley did. His brothers response was almost automatic, calculated to calm him. Ford allowed himself to be held, his tremors subsiding gradually. 

Stan released him, gently pushing him back. “Hey, it’s alright, Sixer. You didn’t know.” 

“That’s the problem! I should have known, I should have protected you!” 

Stan’s eyebrows arched. He shrugged and clasped Ford’s shoulder. “You can; now. Please, don’t tell Ma.” 

Ford met his earnest gaze, and it was as if a string was attached to his head, forcing him to nod. He owed Stanley this much. He could trust Stan’s judgment, which came from a place he wasn’t privy to. Stan was making a decision based on what he believed to be in the best interest of his children. It wasn’t a decision made in logic or according to data, but Ford respected it all the same. 

“I won’t.” 

 

Midnight velvet stretched all around him, the stars strewn across the mindscape burning brightly. No cataloged constellations were formed by the pinpricks of light. Stanford had noticed that, and had told Bill about Greek mythology, where many of the human constellations came from. Bill particularly liked the one about a hunter called ‘Orion’. The man’s lover, a great huntress and goddess, had been tricked by her brother and shot Orion with an arrow. Upon learning she’d killed her beloved mortal, she placed his likeness in the stars.

How foolish the human ‘Gods’ were. He would surpass them all. He would reign over this dimension with power that mortals could not comprehend. He would be their God, and he would be malevolent. 

Bill watched on with displeasure as the Pines twins reconciled. This new development had been completely unforeseen, and things didn’t often catch him by surprise. This brother, Fez, was proving to be more of a problem than he’d anticipated. 

He dismissed the conjured image with a wave of his hand, deep in thought. 

This would require some deliberation.

He closed his eye, watching the two younger Pines twins. They were currently taking too much pleasure from washing breakfast dishes, the female twin coating her chin with frothy soap bubbles and slurring that she had ‘the rabies’. The male twin--Pine Tree, he dubbed him on an impulse-- and Bean Pole were laughing at her antics. 

Bill’s eye opened, narrowed. 

Nothing would keep him from taking his rightful place as a God. He was the only one allowed to pull Ford’s strings, and if Fez was going to try and take what was his he’d just have to eliminate him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your anguish nourishes me!
> 
> The scene where Stan mentions his father targeting him was partially inspired by this amazing comic by infriga on Tumblr. They are one of my favorite Tumblr people and they have awesome content. Here's a link to the comic: 
> 
> http://infriga.tumblr.com/post/155690552370/okay-here-goes-heres-the-first-part-of-my-week-2


	8. Ambivalent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calm before the storm.

Dipper was the twin with the impressive vocabulary. He knew many big words, some he used even though he didn’t know what they meant. Mabel preferred nonsensical words, like razzmatazz and supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. She rarely found use for the words Dipper awkwardly threw into conversations in an effort to impress Wendy. While Dipper liked to burn the midnight oil with a dictionary, Mabel liked to watch mindless television. 

However, there was one word that resonated in her. 

Ambivalent. Having mixed feelings or contradictory ideas about something or someone. Ambivalent, she thought, was the perfect word to describe her feelings. 

Part of her wanted to be happy. Her Grunkle’s had forgiven years of hurt and shared the hug they hadn’t the day Ford stepped out of the portal. Dipper and Ford were like best friends and Fiddleford’s mind was whole. And Stan; his new life alone should have been reason enough to be euphoric. 

Her stomach had churned uneasily when she first heard the tale of the two Stan’s. Stan’s account was so vivid she could see the devastation he’d felt when he lost Ford to the portal. She could picture him crying and screaming and begging for time to be rewound. In the short amount of time it had taken them and young Stan to get to Oregon, she’d developed the same love and trust for him as she had her own Stan. 

This Stan was so similar and yet so different. He was not as jaded, his exterior not as gruff. He used the same nicknames and regarded her with the same affection, but she knew the pain he’d hidden expertly was not so vast. Forty years apart from his twin was now a mere ten. This was not the man who had watched, helpless, as gravity damned him to three decades of regret. The man left behind as blue light, washing the basement in a spectral glow, faded and revealed a portal to nowhere. If Stan had been the unlucky one to fall through, would Ford have been able to reopen the portal that night? If Stan had possessed the knowledge, could he have saved his brother sooner?

After the excitement of meeting the Author departed, she was left with a hollow of uneasiness. She was an empathetic person, and where she saw pain she wanted to efface it. The girl had gone to great lengths to help Robbie, a rotten teenager who’d been mean in every glimpse she got of him. The desire to help Stan, someone she cared deeply for, had been excruciating. Her efforts to put the Stan’s relationship on the mend all ended in failure, and now she had the chance to stop the event that caused years of misery for both of them. 

And she wanted to go home. She was the one who always found the good in a bad situation, and Dipper was happy while she agonized over what-ifs. She could, in theory, accept this new life. In a lot of ways this life was great. They got to live with her two favorite Grunkles, Dipper got to work alongside the person he’d idolized the whole summer, and McGucket was of sound mind. 

For every pro she counted, there was a con. She missed her parents. She missed Waddles and the old men versions of her great uncles. She wanted to have sleepovers with Candy and Grenda, slack off cleaning duty with Wendy and goof around with Soos. Somewhere, in another time and another timeline, her family and friends were wondering where she and Dipper had gone. They’d have searched for them, enlisted the whole town to scour the woods. Maybe Blubs and Durland had gotten a K9 to aid the manhunt. The dog would have found the spot they disappeared and scratched at the ground, whining and circling and wondering why no one understood what had happened. Stan would have been overwrought, fearing the worst. Maybe they’d be desperate enough to tear up the sidewalk, but they’d find no bodies. 

What would Stan say when he called their parents? Would he cry? Would Ford evict him right then, without the need for Stan to take care of them? What agony were her friends and family going through? 

She wanted to be happy for Stan and Ford’s sake, but she was quietly despairing. Wishing for a magical solution, a clicking of the heels to transport her and Dipper home. 

Mabel swallowed a whimper. She was so selfish. Part of her was terribly unhappy, and the other part felt guilty for not being overjoyed that her family--a variant of it--was safe. 

“Don’t look so glum, gumdrop.” 

She jolted and turned to see Fiddleford smiling at her, eyes kind and crinkled by crows feet. 

“Hi, Mr. McGucket.” 

The man moved to sit beside her on the floor in front of the television.

“You can call me Fiddleford,” he smiled at her again. “What’s wrong, sugar?” 

She shrugged listlessly. “Nothin’.”

“Nothin’,” he repeated. “Well, you’ve been staring at the T.V. for a while now, and it is off. What’s on your mind?” 

Mabel could feel tears building behind her eyes. Mr. McGucket was a polite, genuine, and sweet man. He was the type of man who stopped to ask a distraught looking stranger if they were alright. She forced herself to remember why they had to do this, one of the reasons standing before her. He had a wife, and whoever she was this woman must love him. 

“Fiddleford, will you tell me a story about your wife?” 

Wrinkles creased his forehead and his eyebrows rose, but delight followed his confusion. 

“Becky and I were college sweethearts. She was the prettiest girl at Backupsmore,” a dreamy look crossed his face. “I’ll tell you the story we tell my son.” He cleared his throat. “The seventies were a turbulent time, Mabel. My wife and I met at a protest for the Vietnam war. Our first date was a march for women's rights. I told her, ‘Becky, I see you as my equal, but it would just dill my pickle if I could walk you to your dorm.’ She said yes.” Fiddleford gave a lovestruck grin. “She makes me happier than a dead hog in sunshine. The day after the Watergate scandal I proposed. A few years later came Tater-tot in a baby carriage.” 

Watching Fiddleford talk about his wife reinforced Mabel’s wavering resolve. Love for his wife showed openly on his face, and the thought of him losing their story with his mind was heartbreaking. She couldn’t think of only Fiddleford, either. If they hadn’t gone back in time, his entire family would be broken. He’d lose his wife, and his wife would lose her husband. A son would be without a father. He’d stop being Fiddleford McGucket, inventor and engineer of laptops, and start being the crazed old man who lived in the dump and made robots that terrorized the town. 

Protecting him still wasn’t enough to make her stop missing home. That unicorn with the convoluted name was right. She was a bad person.

“I’m a bad person.” Mabel admitted, looking away from his concerned gaze, tears stinging her eyes. 

“Honey! What gave you that idea?” 

She couldn’t answer him, because if she opened her mouth she’d begin to cry. Holding in her sobs made her tremble, and two wiry arms pulled her into a hug. Fiddleford sat her down on his knee, one hand between her shaking shoulders and the other at his side. 

“Mabel, I’ve only known you for a week, but I know you’re a good person. What’s got you thinkin’ otherwise?” 

She sniffed, scrubbing at her falling tears. “I--” What could she say to him? “I know something is the right thing, but I don’t want to do it.” 

Fiddleford nodded, expression unyieldingly kind. “Sometimes doing the right thing is hard, but just because you’re doing it reluctantly doesn’t make you a bad person. You know you can talk to Stan or Ford or even me if something is bothering you. Right and wrong can be complicated, and a grownup can help you know what's what.” 

He was smiling gently at her, and an idea, an awful, wonderful idea, popped into her mind. Fiddleford, the person Ford trusted to help him build an interdimensional portal, was an intellectual equal to Ford himself. If anyone could help her, it was him. She and Dipper had been anxiously awaiting Bill to make his appearence, but he hadn’t. He was plotting. They’d been plotting, too, but hadn’t made any progress. 

Fiddleford was the solution they hadn’t considered. 

Mabel jumped up, calling back her thanks as she raced upstairs. 

True to his word, Ford had gotten two twin mattresses for them in the week they’d been staying with him. Both beds resided on opposite sides of the room, parallel to each other. Hers was encased in cheerful yellow sheets dotted with unopened rosebuds. Dipper’s was dressed in simple blue sheets, both beds covered by patchwork quilts passed from family member to family member with each move. Wedged in the corner between the wall and Dipper’s mattress was his backpack. 

Mabel knew that, buried beneath benign objects and hidden in a zipper pocket, was the tape measure. She then did what she always did. She acted without thought, committed to an idea that affected both of them without consulting Dipper. Tape measure gripped in her hand she dashed downstairs to Fiddleford. 

He had moved to the kitchen table, pouring over detailed blueprints and tiny equations Mabel couldn't read without a magnifying glass.

She halted in the doorway, suddenly unsure. Fiddleford glanced up and flashed her a quick smile. 

“Howdy, feelin’ any better?” 

Her stomach twisted into knots and her hands were sweating around the device. She inhaled deeply, legs heavy and limp as she stepped forward. 

“Mr. McGucket, this,” she presented him with the tape measure, “is a time machine.” 

He sat back, mirth coloring his expression. “Is that so?”

She nodded seriously, standing at his side. “Dipper and I are from the future, the year 2012. I can prove it!” 

Fiddleford frowned, brow furrowing, but he didn’t interrupt. Mabel exhaled a breath she hadn’t consciously held. He was listening, that was one hurdle jumped. She gestured to the device he held in lax hands. “Look, it’s all futuristic and science-y. We found it and it went all crazy and sent us back.”

“Mabel--”

“Please,” she begged, clutching at his hands. “You have to believe me. Ford and you are building a portal, it's in the basement, and it’s dangerous.”

Fiddleford’s head whipped up sharply. He knew Ford had not mentioned the portal, not even to Stanley. His paranoia had subsided, but it hadn’t dissipated. How had Mabel known about it?

“Ford’s working with a demon named Bill, who’s telling him how to build it. His weaknesses are tickles and kitten fists. He possessed Dipper once. I don’t know why, but Bill is evil and if he wants the portal built it can’t be good. Ford gets sucked through and is trapped in some other dimension for thirty years before Grunkle Stan can get him back. And…” Mabel blinked back tears and turned her head to stare at the wall. “You make a memory gun and start a weird cult where you erase people's memories. You erase your mind so much you… lose it.” 

Fiddleford was silent for a long moment, stunned.

“Please, I’m telling you the truth. Look at the tape measure. You’ll see.”

He did. He didn’t know if he felt relieved or scared that Mabel was right about the technological properties of the device. It was far too advanced for anyone on earth to have created. The logical, reasonable part of him didn’t want to believe the girl’s story. Stanford was the one who believed in the possibility of paranormal hogwash, the one to get wide and starry eyed when they met the Abominable Bro-Man. Fiddleford had laid eyes on the creature and promptly fainted. 

He’d seen many impossible things and creatures in Gravity Falls, why draw the line at time travel and demons?

Stanford’s erratic behavior could have been dismissed as the result of a prescription drug cocktail or undiagnosed manic depression. It wasn’t. Fiddleford had thought Ford’s ideas had seemed otherworldly, unnatural, and now he had confirmation. All the talking to himself, as if to another, invisible person, now made sense. He’d confronted Ford once about the source of his ideas, pleaded him to give up and publish his work in a thesis, but Ford refused. He waved off Fiddleford’s concerns about the portals instability, and the only reason he’d stayed was to make sure Stanford didn’t do something stupidly dangerous. This whole time, Ford had literally been working with a demon. Fiddleford’s eyes locked with Mabel’s. 

“I believe you.” 

 

Stanley was on top of the world. An endless expanse of azure and golden sunlight sprawled above him. Colors were vibrant and reverberated within him. The grass was green and the air smelled of summer. Honeysuckle perfumed the breeze that a swallowtail butterfly was wafting on. One of the houses they’d walked past had a lush garden confined within a white picket fence. Peach pink rose bushes were neatly kept and a hummingbird feeder hung from the branch of an oak. Stanley had stopped abruptly, snagging Ford’s sleeve to give him pause. 

“Stanley, what is it?” Ford surveyed the area, alert and mind already thinking of possible reasons Stan stopped him. 

“Relax, Sixer.” Stan said smoothly, bending to smell one of the fully blossomed roses. “Stop and smell the roses.” 

“Really, Stanley?” 

Stan faked shame. “Yeah, you’re right. I should have known you wouldn’t... stan-ford that joke.”

Ford blinked, expression blank. Sunlight glinted on his glasses. “I will rescind my offer to let you stay.” 

A boisterous laugh erupted from Stan’s mouth. “Hilarious and handsome, you’re lucky you got brains.” 

The corners of Ford’s mouth twitched from their tight lipped line into the ghost of a smile. Stan’s grin, big and bright, was contagious. Ford laughed, muted at first, and then loudly. He laughed and grinned until his mouth hurt and he was winded. He’d forgotten how funny Stan could be. 

“You’re a dork.” Ford straightened. “I’ll never get anything done with you around.” He said this lightly, the real implications of his statement left unconsidered for the moment. 

Stan’s steps synced with his and they continued their trip to the nearby convenience store. The beautiful day had been an adequate excuse to walk instead of driving. The Stan mobile reminded him that Stan had lived in his car at seventeen; and his brothers driving was terrifying. It was also a good way to get Stan away from Fiddleford and the kids. The past week had been domestic bliss. Stanley and the kids breathed life into every crevasse they touched. 

But the adjustment period was over and they needed to look towards the future. They’d have to enroll the kids in school, and Stanley could look for a day job that wouldn’t keep him away while the kids were home. 

“I wanted to talk to you, Stanley.” 

Stan stiffened, “is everything alright?” He asked too quickly, the words rushed from his mouth and more gumming up in his teeth. Was Ford going to ask him to leave? They’d been getting along so well. 

“We need to see about getting the kids enrolled in school, and they’ll be needing new clothes, of course. I was thinking you look for a day job of some kind, something that won’t keep you out for long when the kids are home. There’s no hurry, there’s plenty around the house I could use your help with. But the sooner you start looking the sooner you’ll find something.” 

Stan gawked at him. 

“Stanley? Are you alright?” 

The ground swayed beneath him and Ford reached out a steadying hand. “Stan! What’s the matter?” 

The man felt as vulnerable as the day his father had thrown him a prepacked bag, but for a different reason. The past week had been the happiest he’d been in a very long time, and he was waiting for the other foot to drop. He wanted to believe this was his new normal, that constantly running from Rico and his own demons was over. Looking over his shoulder was as natural as breathing to him. The life of a transient taught him that there was not love without loss, and that lurking shadow of grief was ever promising that everything he loved would one day be gone. 

He didn’t wonder if Ford would change his mind, he wondered when. It could be after a day, it could be after ten years. The most he expected from his brother was to save face long enough for the kids to find their way. Ford’s meltdown had come as a shock, and had opened the door to forgiveness. Ford embraced him, his actions saying what he wouldn’t. 

I missed you, too. I made mistakes, too. 

It was as if Ford’s tears and unsaid admission had washed away the dust clouding his vision. Color had been restored to his world. Everything felt right with the universe. Dipper, Mabel, Ford, Fiddleford and him, all had found where they belonged. In a shack-esque house in a remote town in Oregon. Life had blown them to the wind, scattered them to the corners of the world, and together they made a family. If he’d ignored Mabel’s cries that first night, none of this would be possible. 

“Stan? Stanley?” Ford’s face, close to his own, swam into focus. Stan shook his head.

“I’m okay, just got dizzy.” 

Ford didn’t look convinced, but he let Stan go. They walked on, quiet, until Ford broke the silence. 

“This is a 1.6 kilometer walk, you are out of shape.” 

“Kilometers? What the heck kind of measurement is that?” 

“Metric.” 

Stan scoffed. “Okay, nerd. I’ll stick to miles.” 

“Stan, the United States is the only country that doesn’t use the metric system.” 

“That’s because we’re awesome!” Stan pumped his fist. “USA, USA!”

“We are not related. I don’t know you.” Ford’s stride quickened and Stan jogged to catch up, playfully nudging him with his shoulder. 

“Come on, Sixer. Let’s get some fireworks and set things on fire, for our nation's birthday. The kids will love it.”

“It’s August!”

“We’re just really, really early, or really late. And anytime is a good time for setting things on fire.” 

Ford couldn’t contain his grin, and he realized he hadn’t had fun like this since Stan was kicked out. 

 

Bill had eyes everywhere, always watching. He’d been stumped by the origin of Ford’s niece and nephew, and to an almost omniscient being that was a rare thing indeed. But, he was older than the birth of this universe, the waiting game was not foreign to him. He was pleasantly surprised when he only had to wait the human equivalent of days. 

Shooting Star handed him the answer without even knowing it. He knew he didn’t like them when they showed up, and now he knew why. They were a kink in his plan, and kinks needed only to be smoothed. Smothered, extinguished, eviscerated. 

Bill laughed as he spied on Fez and IQ. No such drastic measures would be necessary. The thing that would tear the Pines apart and mend his scheme was small. A conversation. 

The demon stretched large and cackled, the sound deep and echoing. 

Nothing would stand in his way. He would build a throne on the bodies of the innocent and set fire to the world. 

IQ could be a body left in the rubble or he could he a songbird in his gilded cage. Either way, he’d make sure to kill Fez and the brats first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! We're getting closer to the end, three or four more chapters I'd say. Stan's pun is something I've seen circulating on Tumblr. God bless Tumblr.  
> Hope you liked this chapter :)


	9. Goodbye and Good Riddance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things unravel.

“Stanford… summoned the devil?” Fiddleford had stated this multiple times and the disbelief dripping from his voice hadn't lessened. 

Mabel’s mouth curled into a grimace. “I don’t think he’s really a devil, just a demon. Ford thinks Bill’s his friend.” 

Fiddleford nodded seriously, hands clasped together on the tabletop with a white knuckle grip. His knee bounced up and down, his shoulders hunching as he leaned forward. 

“Tell me all the facts you know.” 

Mabel thought. “Bill is a triangle with one eye, he wears a top hat and he can float. He can go into people’s dreams and memories in a place called the mindscape.”

Fiddleford flipped over the blueprints he’d been working on and began writing, his normally neat handwriting a scrawl. 

Mabel continued. “He wants to be in our universe, but he can’t unless he’s summoned, I think. Me and Soos watched Gideon, a fake psychic with big hair, summon him and everything went grey.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything but us and our clothes turned gray. It was really weird.”

Fiddleford wrote that down and motioned for her to go on. 

“He pulled teeth from a deer with a wave of his hand and put them back. He said he knows lots of things. He’s crazy, and a big jerk.”

She described every encounter she’d had with Bill Cipher, sparing no detail. Fiddleford interjected questions to inquire further on certain things or to clarify something. As the list of facts about the demon grew he became more disheartened. 

Fiddleford’s cheeks puffed as he exhaled, a hand combing through his hair as he read and reread his list. A daunting number of abilities and facts stared mocking back at him. Mabel hadn’t specifically said this, but Fiddleford assumed that Bill originated from some kind of second dimension, and under other circumstances that would be a scientific revelation. For an unbeknownst reason Cipher wanted to merge his dimension with theirs. Mabel’s explanations had led him to think that Bill lacked and required a physical form. Why else would he possess Dipper, or anyone else? What did having a physical form mean for him? The answer had to be vital, but they didn’t have the means to answer it so Fiddleford forced himself to move on. 

The demon could shapeshift, read minds, had an undetermined extent of precognition, and he could use telekinesis and levitation. Everything else she’d said could be put in a broad category of magic. He could also probably travel to other dimensions at will, but he could only speculate. 

Fiddleford mentally summarized. Bill Cipher was a dream demon, who needed a physical form to most likely become more powerful. His powers were many and all based in reality distortion.

“Can he possess people at will?”

“No,” Mabel said. “You have to make a deal with him.”

“Okay… alright.” That was one thing in their favor. It implied that while the demon had great power there was a restriction. After all, if he had limitless power he’d have conquered the world already. He needed Stanford to build this portal to gain full access to their dimension, what was the plan if he succeeded? World domination, destruction? 

“By chance does he have any weaknesses?”

Mabel grinned, “yeah. When he got into Stan’s dreams we went to stop him and beat him with kitten fists and lasers and synthesized music. When he possessed Dipper I just had to tickle him and he let Dipper go. And before we got sent back here Uncle Ford was Bill-proofing the shack, I got the unicorn hair.” Her excitement faded. “I don’t know what else he used to protect the shack.”

Fiddleford rubbed her back, “that’s okay, sugar. We know it can be done, that’s something. Ford figured it out once, he’ll do it again after we sort this out. I have one more question, what is Bill like… personally? Is he... eccentric, charming, arrogant?” 

Surely the psychopathic demon had a god-like ego. 

“Oh yeah, no question.” 

From the information Mabel had provided Fiddleford could deduce a few things. Bill was a manipulative trickster, and more importantly, he was self-assured. As a child his family was devout, and his preachers voice rang through his mind. ‘Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before the fall.’ Proverbs 18:12. 

That, however, was a nil comfort. 

Fiddleford’s chest was heavy as he took in a shaky breath. Sweat had beaded on his brow and hairline. “I’ve been friends with Ford longer than this demon. He’ll listen to me.” He spoke with the false confidence of a parent, his fear barely hidden beneath the surface to spare Mabel undue worry. 

“Are you sure?” Her voice faltered, but she looked at him like he was refuge from a war stricken place. He wasn’t sure of victory. He was sure that failure was not an option. Because failure to make Ford see reason was something he couldn’t face. If they failed… that was it for the human race. Genocide or slavery, Fiddleford wouldn’t be able to watch his son grow up. And that was unacceptable. 

“I’ll make him listen.” 

Mabel’s body sagged and she smiled. Fiddleford pulled her into a hug, his arms trembling but strong. “We won’t let him win. I promise.” He laid a hand on the back of the girl’s head, his wedding band catching the light. Fiddleford’s eyes narrowed. Stanford would listen to him; he didn’t have a choice. 

 

Stan and Ford entered quietly through the front door. Stan unloaded the groceries on the living room floor and collapsed on the couch. They'd spent the morning talking about what would have to be done to get the kids enrolled in school for the upcoming year. He didn't have their birth certificates, which would be problematic. Stan was confident he could talk a doctor into writing one up, and if anyone asked he'd stick to his story. The mother gave birth outside of the hospital and never legally registered the children as citizens.

He hoped against hope that there were no missing childrens reports filed for Mabel and Dipper. It was a fear he'd had since he found them, and it was a rational, logical fear. But, and he couldn't say why, he felt certain that there were no missing childrens reports. It was a gut feeling, the one that if he'd had it gambling he'd bet everything. There was no trace of these kids, that's what his gut said. In ten years in less than ideal situations his gut had never given a false positive. Ignoring his instincts was when problems arose. If he was right and there were no paper records of Dipper and Mabel, filing to get a legitimate birth certificate would be feasible. 

Ford, knowing none of this, advised starting with the local hospital and then an attorney if the hospital was a dead end. 

Stan had thought Dipper and Mabel filled his heart, but hearing Ford talk easily about their long-term living arrangements made it grow. They could live here, he'd grow old and the kids could grow up. They'd go to school and live worthwhile lives. Maybe one day he’d muster the courage to tell his mother the truth. She might insist he, Stanford, and the kids visit, and maybe his father would forgive him when he saw how much the kids loved him. The fantasy was just that, a fantasy. Although the kids did have an innate knack for worming their way into people's hearts, Filbrick Pines was immune to the most endearing things. Kittens and puppies were the equivalent of a sewer rat to the man. 

Stan frowned, and in a single moment freed himself of his father's shackles. He was an imperfect man, but Mabel and Dipper loved him. They showed him that in every moment they spent with him, from laughing at his jokes to the smiles that graced their faces any time they looked at him. Where they’d come from wasn’t important. They were his kids now. Nothing would change that. 

That, he decided, was all he needed. Filbrick’s opinion was irrelevant. Ford had forgiven his youthful transgressions and he had the love of two children. His children. His family. 

“Stanley,” Ford’s voice cut through his thoughts and Stan looked at him. 

“Sorry, what was that?” 

“I said I’ll be in my study." Ford looked around the room, loosening his tie. "Please don’t disturb me.” 

Stan gave a mock salute. “You got it.” He flipped on the television, attention focused on it as Ford slipped out.

 

Stanford sat cross legged on the floor and closed his eyes, clearing his mind. Meditation wasn’t as direct of a connection as sleeping, but it was a method of communicating with Bill. His chest rose and fell steadily, the room around him replaced with the ghost of his mindscape. Bill joined him in his mind, looking unusually frazzled. 

“Sixer, I have to talk to you!” Bill’s frantic voice rocketed around his skull and Stanford winced. 

“What is it, Bill?” 

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Sixer.” 

Terror gripped him. “What’s going on, is something wrong?” 

“It’s worse than I predicted, oh, I’m so sorry I didn’t realize sooner.” 

Heat rose to Ford’s skin and nausea churned his stomach. His heartbeat thudded loudly in his pink ears. 

“You’re brother, I didn’t want to believe it but I checked and checked again.” 

“Is something wrong with Stanley?” Ford’s mind was running rabbit fast. Was Stanley in danger? He’d been fine moments ago. What if he had some incurable disease, symptomless until it was too late? He could be seizing on the floor right now--

“You two were so happy, too. It’s a shame.” Bill kept the twinge of satisfaction he felt out of his tone. It was fortunate he didn’t have a mouth, because he wasn’t positive he could have held a straight face. “He’s been lying to you, Fordsey. Those aren’t his kids.” 

Ford blinked, mouth hanging partly open. That couldn’t be, the kids looked and acted just like Stanley. 

“What do you mean they aren’t his kids?” 

“They’re from another dimension, IQ. They’re you’re niece and nephew, alright. Great niece and nephew, your other brothers grandkids. They stole your time machine and found Stan, who's using them to manipulate you. I told you that you were being too kind.” 

The question asking if Stan was aware of any of that flickered fleetingly in his mind, and was banished by the knowledge that Stan had lied to him. Stanley had told lie upon lie to get into Ford’s home and his life. He claimed the kids, who he found god knows where, were his own and made up a sob story to get sympathy. 

Ford's teeth ground together and his hands balled into fists, the flames of rage licking through his veins. Lies. All of it had been lies. Stan hadn’t changed at all, he was the same good-for-nothing who rode his coattails and cost him his dream school because he was selfish. 

“The kids are going to try and keep you from activating the portal because Fez poisoned them against you.” Bill warned. “They’ll try damaging it any moment now, you need to start it right away before they can ruin what we’ve accomplished.”

“The portal’s not stable--”

“Fordsey, haven’t I proven time and time again you can trust me?” Bill’s voice softened, and then became harsh. “And hasn’t your brother proven he doesn't deserve the same? Listen to me,” he cooed. “Trust me, you can always trust me. You need to open the portal before it’s too late.” 

Ford stood on unsteady legs, “you’re right, Bill. You’re always right.” 

The stairwell to the basement seemed suffocating and dark. The portal’s metal gleamed like a beacon, a lighthouse in a stormy sea. The last few years of his life had been designing the portal, and then finally building it. His greatest achievement was reality, and he took a moment to admire it. 

The portal was an inverted triangle, a mass of shiny power cords sprouting from its base. Light bulbs outlined the device, their function to localize fault within the massive apparatus. Bill had protested his safety precautions, saying that something build by two geniuses such as themselves would not be subject to folly. Ford was inclined to agree, but nonetheless installed a fail-safe button and other diagnostic tools.

No elation swelled in him as he flicked the necessary switches and buttons, heaving his weight against the main lever. The portal hummed to life, a tangible, shimmering light forming at the gaping circles edges. He turned his back to the beast, silhouetted by its eerie illumination. 

His heartbeat had slowed and cold clung to his skin. Salt water splashed against the backs of his eyes but did not seep out. He felt fissures splintering across his soul, heard them creaking. His heart throbbed painfully, oozing blood that splattered brightly as a reminder of his brothers betrayal. 

If a single tear escaped and trailed down the slope of his cheek, he didn’t acknowledge it. 

 

Dipper had settled in the living room with Stan after the man told him Ford was busy. He’d been turning over the idea about bringing up time travel with Ford, to get a feel for what he thought about it. If he introduced it as a hypothetical discussion about the nature and dynamics of time travel, Ford would no doubt talk about it at great length. The scientist would have far greater insight to the paradoxes time travel introduced than Dipper did. If he could get a feel for the territory they were in, more than his own theories, than they could better determine their next move. If there was a next move. 

“Hey, kid, get me a soda, will ya?” 

“Sure, Grunkle Stan.” Dipper didn’t pay much attention to Mabel and Fiddleford talking. His sister had taken a liking to the engineer and often joined him when he worked at the table. He closed the refrigerator, two Mr. Pitts in hand, and was about to return to the living room when he saw it. The tape measure, being examined by Fiddleford’s slender, deft fingers. 

The soda cans hit the floor dully and rolled away from him. To Mabel the sound may as well have been a gunshot, because she jerked violently in her seat, twisting to look at him. 

“Dipper.” His name left her mouth unconsciously, and she stared at him with wide, uncertain eyes. 

“Mabel,” Dipper’s reaction was delayed, and for a long moment he felt nothing. Mabel hopped from her chair and cautiously approached him. 

“Dipper?” She asked softly, fingertips grazing his shoulder and igniting his anger. He reared back, accusation contorting his face. 

“What did you do?” 

Mabel stuttered, perhaps for the first time in her life, rendered speechless. Behind her Fiddleford stood, moving towards them and stopping in a crouch. 

“Dipper, I need you to calm down. Everything is okay, I know the truth and I’m going to help you. I won’t do anything to hurt you two, I promise. I’m here to help.” His voice was low and level, the voice a parent used to soothe their child. 

Dipper ignored him. “Mabel, how could you? After all we’ve been through, you go behind my back?!” 

“Dipper I--”

“I, I, I,” Dipper mimicked. “It’s always about you! Can’t you be unselfish, for once?” 

In spite of his anger, Dipper felt bad the moment the words left his mouth. “Mabel, I didn’t mean that.” 

But the damage was done. Mabel’s face had always been unguarded, her feelings displayed openly. Her eyes screwed shut and tears fell uncontrollably, dripping onto her sweater. She sucked in a ragged breath, heart wrenching whimpers trickling out of her mouth. Her arms coiled around herself and she shook her head, backing away from him. Fiddleford caught her, wrapping one arm around her shuddering frame. 

He kept eye contact with Dipper, his expression not turning hostile as the boy expected. 

“I realize yer upset, but nows not the time, eh?” 

Dipper didn’t have a chance to reply. Stan walked into the room, frowning.

“What’s wrong, pumpkin?” 

“The kids just got into a little spat, nothing they can’t rectify, right Dipper, Mabel?” 

Mabel gave a shallow nod and Dipper crossed his arms, turning his head before nodding. 

“Good.” Fiddleford rose. “Does Stanley know?”

Dipper shook his head. 

“Do I know what?” Stan glanced to all of them. “What don’t I know?”

“It’s Stanford, he’s--” Fiddleford didn’t finish, thrown off his balance as the house shook. 

“What the hell?” Stan steadied himself on a wall. “An earthquake?” 

“No,” Fiddleford whispered. “The portal.” He sprinted for the basement door, yelling when he found it locked. He yanked uselessly at the knob. Stan didn’t know what was going on, but he knew whatever it was must be serious. Mild mannered Fiddleford had never looked so desperate, and Stan pushed him aside. He stood a few feet from the door and aimed a kick close to the knob. The door swung in with a bang and Stan turned expectantly to Fiddleford. 

The man stared at him, impressed for a second, and then galloped down the stairs. The kids followed, just as panicked, and Stan opted to not slow them down with questions. At the end of a hallway Fiddleford was jamming the button to an elevator, foot tapping the ground agitatedly. The metal doors groaned as they opened and all four of them crammed into the elevator. 

“You’re brother has built a portal and the idiot doesn't realize it’ll bring about the apocalypse. We have to stop him, no matter what. The portal can’t be activated, it could tear our universe apart.” He explained. 

Stan might have had a harder time believing him, but he knew his brother. World's stupidest genius, he used to call Ford. 

“Why did you let him build this?” He demanded, understanding why everyone was so frantic. 

“Because I’m an idiot too!” Fiddleford snapped. “We have to stop him.”

The elevator stopped, doors peeling open to reveal the basement awash in blue light. Stanford stood facing the swirling portal, his hair floating above his head in tendrils. 

Fiddleford gave no outcry as he dashed for the emergency shutdown. Ford tackled the man, Fiddleford’s head smacking the ground with an unsettling crack. Stanford let him scramble back, turning his blazing eyes to Stan. 

“You lied to me, Stanley. Lies, that’s all you’re good for, you and your scheming kids.” 

“Ford,” Fiddleford pleaded. “Bill’s lying to you, this thing will destroy the universe. We have to shut it down!” 

“You’ve turned against me, too, Fiddleford?” 

“Leave him alone, Ford.” Stanley opened his arms, walking slowly towards his brother. “I’m the one you’re mad at, but you need to calm down and think.” 

“Don’t tell me to calm down.” Ford snarled, foot sliding forward to close the gap between them. In one smooth motion Stan ducked behind Ford, arm locking around the mans neck. He let himself fall back, tripping Ford over his leg. Stan’s legs constricted around Ford’s torso and he held him there until the man went limp. 

Stan untangled himself from his passed out brother. “Sorry, Sixer.” 

“Don’t worry about it!” Ford’s eyes popped open, the orbs yellow and his pupils black slits. Stan jumped, yelping.

“Moses! Ford are you okay?” 

Ford laughed maniacally, his voice high. “Stanley Pines, do you have any idea how much I hate that name? It’s the mantra of your pathetic brothers subconscious. Stanley this, Stanley that, ‘is Stanley okay’. All the time! But out loud? He hardly ever said your name, he hated even thinking it, because he hates yo--get away from that button Bean Pole!” Ford, no, that couldn’t be Ford, spun and blue fire encased his hand. Fiddleford was flung away from the control panel, the force slamming him into a wall. He slumped in a motionless heap on the ground. 

Stan growled, lunging for Ford. He hit him with relentless punches, pinning him. His arm wound back for a nose breaking punch, but the air tingled with electricity and Stan’s clothes rose off his body, making him pause. Gravity disappeared and empty space separated them from land. Ford’s face split into a bloody, toothy grin. 

“It’s cute you think you’ve won.” His leg drew back and snapped forward, sending Stan skywards. Ford landed and stood firmly on the ground, watching as the portal’s pull grabbed Stan. The man flailed, stricken by horror. He reached helplessly for what he knew wasn’t his brother. 

“Goodbye and good riddance, Stanley Pines.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness. Did you see that coming?


	10. Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here today and gone tomorrow.

Air rushed around him. Flesh and bone peeled from his spirit, leaving Ford disoriented. Bill had taken control of his body many times, always with warning and permission. This was forceful. Violating. 

“Bill! What are you doing?” 

Stan muttered something and Bill answered, laughing a laugh Ford had never heard before. It was deranged and primal, and fear wiped Stanford’s mind blank. 

Bill piloted his body awkwardly, moving jerkily. In his triangular form his expressions were limited to his eye, and now that he had a larger canvass he had no control of it. Ford didn’t even recognize his own face. Bill stepped towards Stanley, face contorting into a sadistic expression as he patronized him. The demon cut himself short to fend off Fiddleford. 

Stanford winced, a helpless spectator as Fiddleford’s frail body collided with the unforgiving wall. He screamed Fiddleford’s name, unheard by all and ignored by Bill. His phantom hands phased through the man's still form and he saw blood staining his hair. He couldn’t even check for a pulse.

“You lied to me!” The realization was too little too late, and Ford’s eyes landed on the kids. They were petrified, clinging to one another for dear life. Their faces were mirror images of an emotion beyond terror or anguish, and Ford followed their gaze.

Stanley was fighting Bill, the two of them tumbling closer to the portal. Stan was ruthless, wailing mercilessly on Bill when another anomaly hit. He was about to deliver a knockout punch, but stopped as he began rising. Ford watched in horror as Bill kicked Stan in the chest.

“Goodbye and good riddance, Stanley Pines.” Bill smirked, an ugly twist of lips stretched too thin. 

God no, not Stanley. His brother was being sucked into the portal, reaching for purchase that wasn’t there. His eyes were wide and shining with tears, his mouth open in a scream. Stan’s profile was engulfed in blinding light and Ford felt his world be obliterated. 

He hadn’t wanted this. He’d said he never wanted to see Stan again, and now he never would. Stan’s cocky grin would be lost to this dimension, he’d never sling an arm over Ford’s shoulders again. Ford would never be able to tell him how wrong he was. Stanley would never know how much he loved him, how sorry he was. 

The portal groaned, the lights cutting off. Ford turned, a bittersweet relief overcoming him when he saw Mabel crumpled at the emergency shut-offs base. 

“Shooting Star!” Bill hovered over the girl, rage emitting from him in waves. 

“Bill! Leave her alone!” Ford was ignored again, the man powerless to help his niece. He watched uselessly as Mabel’s body flailed like a rag doll when Bill slammed her down. He could do nothing but stare as Bill choked her. If Mabel died… he’d never forgive himself. Neither would Stanley. How his brother had come upon the kids had been a lie, but Ford no longer doubted the love he had for them. 

Movement from the corner of his eye made him turn and he saw Fiddleford stir. The man’s head lolled and he went still again. Ford was beside him in an instant. “Fidds, you gotta wake up, he’s going to kill the kids.” 

Bill had abandoned Mabel in favor of Dipper, and whether it was because of Ford’s plea or sheer luck Fiddleford came to. The man pushed himself up on his hands and knees, grimacing. He looked around, freezing when he spotted Bill. In a flurry of motion he was up, grabbing a metal rod that had been displaced in the gravity anomalies. The crowbar sliced down on Bill’s shoulder. 

Ford watched the demon fly out of his body and reclaimed it, embracing the pain. 

 

Dipper clung to Mabel, anger forgotten. Was this the consequence of their meddling? Was the multiverse dependent on constant events with the outcomes contingent on variables? Was either Stan or Ford fated to go through the portal? In every universe, was misfortune destined? The boy’s mind was racing, his feet rooted to the spot. Mabel was not so burdened.

She was of singular thought the moment Bill pushed her uncle. She wrenched herself free of Dipper’s grip. Adrenalin thrummed in her veins as she scanned the room. Gravity was weakest at the portals mouth, but Fiddleford’s limp body, on the other side of the room and against the wall, stayed on the ground. She pressed close to the walls and moved to the point closest to the control panel. Mabel didn’t think as she launched herself towards the button. She felt a familiar floating sensation, momentum propelling her. It was by the grace of god she was able to grab onto the controls. There were no harrowing words, only blood roaring in her ears and the sting of her hand slamming the button.

The portal made a metallic clang and gravity returned full force. She hit the ground, landing painfully on her front. All at once reality rushed her. She gasped, knowing then that the experience had taken only moments. She had no time to orient herself, Bill’s hands seizing her sweater. The demon was shrieking in her face, lifting her to slam her back down. The impact was jarring and her bones rattled, the world flickering black. She was faintly aware of six-fingered hands throttling her. She had no strength left to fight and her body sagged in surrender. 

Death did not come. The shroud of darkness covering her was ripped away suddenly in the form of Dipper attacking Bill from behind. The boy gave a battle cry, tiny fists beating into Ford’s body. He hadn’t thought to arm himself with a weapon, but he was distraction enough to give Mabel a chance to suck in a ragged gasp. 

His uncle had never looked so intimidating. He hadn’t recognized the threat Stanford could impose, because he hadn’t thought he would ever be a threat. Now, as the man loomed over him, Dipper saw that had been a grave error. Ford’s body was not kept fit from thirty years of fending himself from alien dangers, but he was a full grown man and Dipper was a child. 

Bill was completely unhinged, his catlike eyes bright and illuminating his crazed grin. Dipper didn’t have time to blink before fingers were digging into him. Murder was alive in those slitted pupils and Dipper, quick thinking, clever Dipper, saw no solution. Mabel was injured and they had no tricks up their sleeves. 

This might be the end. 

The boy braced himself, eyes squeezed shut. No pain came. Bill’s harsh grip went slack and Dipper fell. He looked up to see Fiddleford, a crowbar poised over his shoulder, ready to strike again. Ford’s body slumped to the side and the metal rod clattered on the ground. Fiddleford scooped him up and did the same with Mabel, sitting with them clutched in his arms. 

He examined them with shaking hands. Angry red marks that would turn to bruises had already bloomed on Mabel’s throat. He turned Dipper’s face from side to side, searching for signs of abuse. Dipper wanted to tell him he was fine, but his voice caught in his mouth and came out in an unintelligible stutter. Fiddleford pressed the boys head to his shoulder, his hold on the children tightening as he cried.

Mabel and Dipper could feel his heart hammering against his chest as they returned his embrace. They stayed like that for a long time, none of them wanting to accept that Stanley was gone. They might have stayed that way all night, holding onto each other, had a groan not disturbed them.

 

Things emerged in lightening shades of grey. He’d been in a comfortable blackness, and each time the blackness faded so did the numbness encasing him. Full awareness brought searing pain from his shoulder and moving forced him to feel every vertebrae in his spine. He cried out, a raw, pitiful sound. 

Lightning shot through his head, effectively paralyzing him. His nostrils flared as he inhaled, his head pulsating. Ford stayed that way, unmoving and solely focused on breathing, until the pain broke. Finally able to string together coherent thoughts he called out to Fiddleford. For a long moment he received no reply and apprehension pressed down on his chest. 

What if the blow to Fiddleford’s head had been more serious than it looked? It could have caused a concussion. The man might have lapsed into unconsciousness, internally bleeding. While he catastrophized he heard shuffling and a trio of war-weary, tear streaked faces appeared over him. 

Ford had so much to say, so much to apologize for that he didn’t know where to start. He said one thing. Stanley’s name. 

Lines crinkled around Fiddleford’s mouth, a strangled cry leaving him as his red eyes brimmed with tears. 

He shook his head. “He’s gone.” 

Stanford lurched into a sitting position, pain flaring throughout his back. He stumbled to the portals metal husk, his legs giving out beneath him. He sat on his knees, stupefied gaze on the dead machine. The portal didn’t have adequate power to restart, and activating it could rip the universe apart. Bill had, intentionally or not, put him in a double bind. If he could reopen the portal he was risking the universes well being for one person, and if he did nothing the guilt would devour him. 

He failed his brother, and now Stan was gone. Alive or dead, Ford didn’t know. He might never know. 

A large, warm hand rested on his shoulder. 

Ford’s body bent forward and the dam broke, tears and snot dripping to the dirt floor. He did nothing to stifle his shuddering wails. Once he started he couldn’t stop. He cried and screamed, crying harder when the kids and Fiddleford surrounded him in a hug. 

He wanted them to hate him. He didn’t deserve their compassion. He wanted them to scream at him, wanted Fiddleford to pick the crowbar back up and inflict all the pain he’d caused them and Stan. If they hated him, he wouldn’t have to hate himself. It would be easy to defend his actions if they blamed him. But he blamed himself and there was no justifying his selfishness. He alone was the judge, jury, and executioner--and he was guilty.

He had done much more than make a mistake. Ten years ago, when Stan broke his project, that was a mistake. Stanford had killed his brother. He could have been teleported into the vacuum of space, or below a planet's crust, or to a dimension where the atmosphere was made of chlorine. Maybe he was transported to a harmless dimension and simply landed on his head, snapping his neck. 

He could count a hundred scenarios that ended in Stan’s death, and none where Stan returned home. 

“Ford, Ford!” Fiddleford was in front of him suddenly. “We have to keep Bill out, do you know how we can do that? Mabel says we need unicorn hair.” 

Ford gasped, sputtering on the air. His breathing eventually regulated and he nodded, wiping his face with his sleeve. 

“I--” he sniffed. “I think I know what we need.” He stood, and just when he thought he had regained his composure he fell forward, clinging to Fiddleford. “He’s gone, Fidds, he’s gone. What did I do?” Fiddleford hugged him, but could offer no comfort. 

Ford was right, his brother was gone. And it was his fault. 

 

Stanley’s scream was lost as air compressed around him, the weightlessness he’d felt when pulled into the portal disappeared, replaced with the sensation of falling. He seemed to fall forever, like the nightmares he’d get as a child. In the dreams he’d be walking, trip, and the ground never stopped him. He always woke up, gasping and sweaty, but safe on his mattress. This was no dream. The sudden stop at the end wouldn’t wake him up; it would kill him. A memory flitted through his mind, a snapshot of childhood he hadn’t thought twice about until this moment. 

Their family was driving when they witnessed a car crash ahead of them. One of the men had been ejected through the windshield. He sustained blunt force trauma to the head and stayed in the hospital three days for a basal fracture and checked himself out against medical advisement because he couldn’t afford to stay longer. Stan knew all of that because he’d read it in the local paper and his mother had gotten a call from the man's wife. The incident had left them in debt and her husband lost his job for missing work. She wanted to know if she should stand by her husband or go live with her parents in Vermont. His mother advised her to stay with him, but Stan later heard his mother gossiping with a neighbor that the woman had left the man.

Why he vividly remembered all that Stan didn’t know. What had stayed with him as a child was the sound of busting glass and burning rubber. He was afraid to get in the car after that. He’d hyperventilate whenever they drove over thirty miles an hour and Filbrick was not a patient man.

Ford was the one to cure his fear. ‘It’s not speed that kills people, Stan, it’s the quick stop at the end’. He’d punctuated his statement by smacking his hands together. Looking back Stan didn’t know why that had helped, but he wasn’t afraid of car rides after Ford told him that. Maybe he’d thought he could avoid the ground.

That didn’t seem like an option now. 

Everyone considered Ford the smart twin, and Stan wouldn’t contest that, but he did have an impressive amount of book smarts considering he dropped out of high school. He knew the longer he fell, the more speed he acquired, and the harder his eventual collision would be. If the impact didn’t kill him instantly, all his bones would be shattered. Calculating velocity was definitely Ford’s area of expertise, but Stan knew even if he fell into water it would be as hard as cement. 

This was it. This was the end. 

He kept falling. 

Fiddleford had said this was an interdimensional portal, what if he was in a dimension where there was no ground? It could be an endless void. What if he fell forever? He’d die of dehydration, or he’d reach terminal velocity and gravity would tear him apart. Was that possible? If it really was an endless void that would mean there was no other mass to create gravity and he’d technically be floating. And he was assuredly falling, so that meant there had to be an end somewhere. Which ruled out being killed by dehydration and ruled in death by impact. 

Stanford would appreciate his critical thinking skills under duress. 

He’d been falling for what must have been minuets, he had to be getting close to something besides nothingness soon--he hit the ground and knew no more. 

 

The first conscious thought to go through his mind was, am I dead? His mouth tasted like copper and opening his eyes was a herculean effort. The world above him was made of obsidian. He closed his eyes and took a slow breath that caused a sharp twinge in his side. He hissed through his teeth, forcing himself to take shallow breathes. 

A rib, maybe multiple, was broken and his body radiated pain, but nothing else felt badly damaged. How that was possible, he didn’t know. Stan exhaled slowly and opened his eyes again. Squiggly lines swarmed his vision, eventually coalescing into blackness broken by pinpricks of light. He blinked, waiting for his vision to clear. The pale blue lights emanating overhead became more defined and he realized his eyes didn’t need to focus. 

He lay immobile, taking small breaths and trying to stave off the agony in his head. When the haze of pain dissipated somewhat he recognized that the ground beneath him was solid and damp. The lighting was to dim for him to see, but the surface he’d pressed his palms into felt like stone. It was rough and rippled and Stan pictured the sand at Glass Shard Beach. 

Surviving his fall after hitting this ground was impossible. Regardless of physics, he was alive. He dug in his jean pocket, elation filling him when his fingers wrapped around his lighter. He didn’t smoke, he was too poor to afford it, but when he was homeless he learned a lighter was invaluable. A lighter, pliers, a screwdriver, a flashlight and a swiss army knife were all essentials. Everything except the lighter and knife he’d reluctantly left in his car, and he was immensely grateful that old habits died hard. 

His thumb slipped on the sparkwheel, and the second try rewarded him with a small yellow flame. He held the lighter over his head and the glow illuminated something he hadn’t seen before. 

Above him hung delicate strands of what looked like crystal beads. They trailed upwards and Stan squinted, realizing they were all interconnected and attached to some kind of ceiling. A cave ceiling. 

The man struggled to stand and reached a hand up to touch one of the strands. It was sticky and the whole string swayed. He turned to see a transparent, worm creature inching its way towards him. It took a moment for the pieces to fit together, and when they did Stan knelt, staying low to the ground. 

It was a web, and that creature was the maker of it. He didn’t want to find out if the worm was dangerous to humans and he began to wander in a random direction. He wasn’t sure how long he walked through the strange landscape. It appeared desolate, save for the occasional, faint flutter of some kind of insect. He wondered if there were larger predators he needed to worry about. 

The longer he walked, the more heavily his situation weighed on him. His lighter wouldn't last forever and the bioluminescent spots above him were growing sparse. Soon he would be defenceless in the dark, with no inkling of what predators might conceal themselves in the blackness. 

Ford was out of his mind and there was no telling if or when he could reopen the portal to bring him back. And if he was able to, Stan wouldn’t be in the same place the portal had originally opened. 

He was trapped. 

Stanley had endured many horrible things in his life, but this broke him. His knees crashed into the rocky ground and he wept. He would never see Mabel and Dipper again. What would happen to them? Ford couldn’t and wouldn’t care for them. 

Fiddleford, sweet and rational, he would make sure the kids were okay. 

Another realization struck him. Fiddleford had been telling him about a demon Ford was in cahoots with--Bill?-- and he assumed that everyone back home was alright, but he had no proof of that. Bill could still be there, reeking havoc. They might all be in danger at this very moment. Dipper and Mabel could be dead. 

Stan had never felt so utterly helpless. There was nothing he could do to protect them in another dimension. He wasn’t as smart as Ford, he couldn’t jerry-rig a way home. He held himself, wishing the fall had killed him. 

He pocketed the lighter, the plastic hot. Once his eyes adjusted Stan started walking again, this time with a goal in mind. 

Surviving.

He’d been flung into the fray of life at seventeen, unaware of how the world worked. If he could do it at seventeen, he could do it now. Somehow he’d find a way to get back, but first he had to survive. And that started with finding a water source. 

His journey was slow and tedious. The caves were extensive, the stone walls a constant dark abstraction. He came upon a forest of stalagmites and stalactites, the deposits slick with a turquoise colored, glowing substance. The incandescence lit the chamber, revealing a dark shoreline. Stan’s feet sunk in the rocky sand and he stared down at the water. It looked like a pane of black glass, and beneath its glossy surface were bobbing orbs of light. He knelt, straining to see the swimming creatures. They paid him no mind and did not come close enough for him to get a good look. 

Stan heaved a breath and dipped the tip of his little finger into the fluid. It was cool, the texture synonymous with water. Water that was probably infested with parasites. He supposed it was death by dehydration or take the gamble and hope his immune system could cope. He cupped his hands together and brought the liquid to his lips. It tasted stale, but it was water. After slurping down three more mouthfuls he wondered about the waterborne diseases he might get. 

For a while he felt nothing, and he thought maybe he was in the clear. Then the cramps twisted his guts. The liquid in his stomach came up until he had nothing left. Stan panted, curling into a ball on the ground. His skin was clammy and everything hurt as he plunged into a fevered sleep. 

 

Time passed indiscernibly in the darkness. In the distance he heard what sounded similar to a pig being slaughtered. His hackles were constantly raised because it felt like he was being watched. Laughter echoed around him, figures lurking in his peripheral vision and disappearing when he faced them. 

When he dozed the cave walls seemed to rearrange themselves. He didn’t remember moving from the bioluminescent lit cave, but when he woke he found himself laying on a bed of moss instead of stone. Leathery wings flapped in the darkness, outlines of creatures circling above him. 

Whatever they were, they did not attack. 

Stanley phased in and out of awareness, but he did not fall asleep again. The first time he slept he’d dreamt about waking up in Ford’s house, Mabel and Dipper cuddled against him. The portal was an invention of his sleeping mind and Ford was not working with a demon. Stan believed it. He wanted it to be true, needed it to be true. In the dream Ford walked up to him, smiling, and told him he needed to wake up. After he did wake he kept hearing Ford’s voice, felt the warmth of the kids’ hands in his own. 

He wasn’t a religious man, the concept of an omniscient being existing was to big for him to comprehend. Religion was contradictory and a scam if he ever saw one, but he had just been confronted with things he didn’t think possible. So he prayed aloud, begged anyone listening to help him. He promised he’d never do morally ambiguous things again; and he meant it. If he could go home he’d be the best person he could be. Just please god, he needed to know Mabel and Dipper were okay. 

He’d prayed in times of crisis before, the results not enough to convince him of God’s existence, but what happened next was undeniably a miracle. In a burst of white light a man in a jumpsuit appeared, grumbling to himself as he surveyed the area. He spotted Stan and his brow creased. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Stan leapt to his feet. “Please, please can you help me? My name is Stanley Pines and I came here in my brothers sci-fi portal, can you help me get home?” 

The portly man’s eyes narrowed beneath his goggles. “Pines, as in Dipper and Mabel Pines?”

“I--what? How did you--their name is Pines too?” Stan asked dumbly. 

“Nevermind,” he snapped. “This dimension is lawless and the physics aren’t definite, we need to get out of here.” He beckoned him to come closer. Stan gladly obliged, steps away from the stranger when the ground shifted beneath them. Stan’s arms pinwheeled as he struggled to keep his balance. 

“What was that?!” He yelled. 

The man grabbed his upper arm and jerked him away from the hole opening under them. They scrambled back, cracks spreading rapidly in the rocky ground. The mouth gaped wider and the man lost his footing. Stan grabbed him, grunting at his weight, and yanked him back until they reached stable ground. 

“What was that?” Stan asked, huffing. 

“A worm hole. Come on, this place isn’t stable. A human like you will go mad in a few more days.” He groped at his utility belt, hands grasping empty air. The man sucked in a sharp breath and patted himself down. “No, no, no, no.” 

“What? What’s wrong?” Stan asked, newfound hope dwindling. 

“My tape measure, it alters time and space, that’s how I got here. Do you see it?”

They crawled on the ground searching for it before coming to the inevitable conclusion that it had fallen into the wormhole. 

“W-what does that mean? You can get us out of here, right? You can get us home?” He didn’t remember moving towards the man, or grabbing his shoulders and shaking them. The time traveler slapped his hands away, bushy eyebrows curving down. 

“Of course I can! It’ll just take… a little while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bam! Now we know where that pesky tape measure came from.  
> I tried to have the twins save Stan before this happened, honest I did. Ended with a hopeful note, at least. Blendin can get them back, but it'll take enough time for Ford to realize what a jackass he'd been being. Hope you liked this chapter!


	11. Southern Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sometimes the worst place you can be is in your own head."

It had taken half a day to Bill-proof the house, most of that time spent getting the unicorn hair. Mabel had told them horror stories about her last encounter with the horned beasts, and the four of them lumbered into the forest ready for a fight. Stanford knew firsthand how infuriating unicorns were and went equipped with scissors and guns, prepared to scalp the creature if necessary. Fiddleford, somehow keeping a rational head, told Ford that he would not be murdering unicorns in front of the children. The man had Ford and the kids lag behind and spoke to the unicorns himself. 

Ford then remembered why his friend was popular in college. The man had an inner quality of gentleness that drew people to him, his Southern charm and honesty quick to disarm foes. The giggly unicorn talked to Fiddleford in hushed tones, throwing smug looks at Stanford throughout their conversation. After much flattery the horse allowed Fiddleford to comb her main, gifting him a lock of multicolored hair. They left the glade and unicorns in good graces, Celestabellebethabelle telling Fiddleford he was welcome to visit again. 

Dipper and Fiddleford walked ahead of Ford and Mabel, unaware of the impressive feat that had just been accomplished. Ford and the girl shared a disbelieving, envious look. The exchange was comical, and fondness for Mabel momentarily soothed Ford’s aching heart. Mabel smiled, a remission from her sullenness. Her sunny smile instantly reminded Ford of Stanley at that age and the shred of happiness he felt was ripped away.

He looked forward, teeth snagging his lower lip and eyes watering. On the trip back home they stayed clustered that way, Fiddleford and Dipper in the lead and Ford and Mabel in the rear. Somewhere along the way Mabel’s hand became gripped in his and Stanford barely managed to keep from openly sobbing. 

Dipper told him they’d used moonstones, mercury and the unicorn hair to Bill-proof the shack. With the boys assistance, crafting the rest of the barrier took no time at all. The twins assured Fiddleford and Stanford that the barricade worked flawlessly in their time, but none of them felt safe. 

The house protected, there was nothing left to keep Stanford’s mind busy. He sat on the edge of the couch, head in his hands, desolate. Stan had been sprawled on this couch less than twenty-four hours ago. They’d just talked about getting the kids enrolled in school before that. 

If Ford hadn’t allowed himself to be manipulated, Stanley would still be there. He’d be helping Fiddleford make dinner, the kids at the table chatting excitedly about the day's happenings. Ford would sit with them, mostly silent, enjoying everyone's company. Stan would say something funny, they’d laugh, and all would be right in the world. 

Except Stan wasn’t there. Like Schrodinger’s cat, Stan was both dead and alive before opening the portal. 

Ford gripped at his hair, staring at the carpet but not seeing it. He knew what he had done. He had yet to process it; the finality yet to set in. Where did he go from here? The barrier was, at best, a temporary solution. Bill had fooled him expertly, he could do the same to someone else. The demon was crafty, he’d find a way to get what he wanted. As much as Ford wanted to curl into a ball and die, damage control was his responsibility. Fiddleford and the kids shouldn’t have to suffer for his misdeeds.

“Dinner’s ready, great uncle Ford.” Said a dull voice.

It was Dipper, grim-faced. Ford’s insides shriveled further. He and the boy had become close since Stan arrived. Dipper was a bright young lad, who had obviously idolized him. Ford had enjoyed having an apprentice of sorts, someone to pass his knowledge onto. The boy who had once looked at him like he held all the answers now looked at him with thinly veiled disappointment. 

Hatred would have hurt less. 

Stanford swallowed around the lump in his throat and nodded, not trusting his voice to be steady. Dipper waited for him to stand and walked him to the kitchen. Mabel and Fiddleford sat at the table, their devastated expressions now pulled into ones of focus. 

Dinner was hastily thrown together sandwiches that Fiddleford pushed towards Ford when he sat.

“Eat.” He ordered, not bothering to look up. He stared at a paper littered by messy notes, his mouth pulled into a tight line. Mabel’s chair had been pushed next to Fiddleford’s, the girl’s arms folded on the tabletop. She leaned to look at the paper and said something. Fiddleford nodded vigorously, writing it down. 

Ford frowned, feeling like an outsider. 

“What are you all doing?” He asked, sounding too suspicious.

“I believe I told you to eat,” Fiddleford said crossly, eyes tapering. He kept a glare fixed on Ford until he relented and picked up a sandwich. “We’re making a plan of attack.” He clarified after Ford took a bite. “Mabel and Dipper have collaborated to make a list of Bill’s weaknesses. The barrier is a preventative measure, but we all know it won’t stop Bill forever. Logically, the portal is what he wants, so it has to be destroyed after we save Stanley.” 

“We can’t open the portal again, it’s too dangerous.” 

Fiddleford gaped at Ford, speechless. His cheeks flushed red with anger and when he found his voice it was used to yell. 

“You are the most pompous jackass I have ever met, Stanford Pines! That is your brother, we can’t abandon him.”

Ford returned with equal ire. “You want to risk the fate of the universe for one man? Activating the portal again could be the end of the world! The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one.” 

“Don’t you quote Star Trek to me you son of a bitch!” Fiddleford stood quickly, his chair scraping on the floor. His hands pressed down on the table as he leaned forward aggressively, teeth bared. 

Ford had never seen his colleague fuming and he instinctively reared back. 

“Guys,” Dipper interjected. “In our time, you went through the portal. It took Stan thirty years to reopen it, and when he did you came right out. I don’t know how it opened right to where you were, but it did. It didn’t destroy the world--it did create an interdimensional rift that you contained. As long as the Shack is Bill-proofed I don’t see why the portal can’t be opened briefly to bring Stan back. You can dismantle the portal and destroy the intructions for it. And we should probably destroy the incantation you used to summon Bill in the first place.”

Fiddleford and Ford stared at Dipper, silent for a moment. It was unnerving to hear the boy talk about the future in such a blasé manner. And what a future he described! In their timeline Stanley was the one left behind, and he worked on the portal for thirty years to get Ford back. How could he justify leaving Stan stranded when his brother spent a third of his life trying to bring him back? If he didn’t at least try saving him, he was letting their father slam the door in Stan’s face all over again. How many times was Ford willing to make the same mistake? 

Ford felt a chasm of despair open inside him, beyond comparison to the heartbreak he felt in response to Stan’s alleged betrayal. It was a bottomless canyon, and he teetered at its edge. He forced himself to meet Dipper’s hard gaze. The boy was astonishingly composed, as was his sister. 

Looking at the children provided no insight to their bizarre origin, and Ford wished he didn’t know the truth. Two days ago they had simply been Stanley’s kids, and he longed to return to that reality. 

They’d all been happy, and he’d taken that from them. 

Fiddleford cleared his throat and sat down. 

“I agree with Dipper, we need to get Stan back and we’ve got proof that activating the portal doesn’t end the world.” 

“But what do we do about Bill? He could possess me again, or someone else.” Ford said, sinking in his seat. He had almost had to watch his niece and nephew die. If Fiddleford hadn’t woken up Mabel and Dipper would be lifeless bodies downstairs, their warmth fading. Their cherubic faces would be paperwhite as blood settled, turning their lower parts purple and red. If they were left where they fell, blood undrained and body not embalmed, nature would rush to reap the spoils. The putrid stench would attract vermin and insects. Even if within moments of death they had taken serene expressions, their eyes would protrude from the sockets as the bodies released gasses. Wide, glazed eyes, unseeing of the horrors their corpses had undergone. 

Stanford gagged, the visions too vivid in his mind. He almost missed what Dipper said next. 

“Our Ford had a metal plate in his head to keep Bill from possessing him.” 

That… was something he hadn’t considered. It was a good idea.

“But how could we install it? I’m not that kind of doctor, and I couldn’t do it myself.” 

“I don’t think we have time for brain surgery.” Fiddleford said dryly. “Time is critical in getting Stanley back safe. Your Ford may have been able to survive for thirty years, but we have no way of knowing where he was sent. The dimension Stanley wound up in may be more hostile. The longer we wait, the more likely it is…” he hesitated. “That we won’t get him back at all.” 

Quiet befell the room. They had all been individually thinking it, and now that the words were said they hung obtrusively in the air. Saying it was to accept it, and none of them were ready to admit that their best efforts might not be enough. 

“What about a tinfoil hat?” Mabel suggested, her voice breaking the dark atmosphere. “It works for crazy people in movies.” 

Stanford considered it. Mabel’s proposition was, at first glance, childish. But that was only because she lacked the technical thinking to flush her idea into something substantial. It was theoretically possible to create some kind of provisional device to keep Bill out of his mind. Headgear made of the right material should be sufficient means to protect them from Bill while activating the portal. 

Ford stood. “Fiddleford, start fueling the portal. I’ll prepare the rift containment device. I already have something I think I can rig up to keep Bill out of my head.” What he said next he said unintentionally. “We’re getting my brother back.” 

 

“So, uh, what’s your name?” 

“Blendin Blandin.” The man answered distractedly, poking a screwdriver at his wrist watch. 

“Seriously?” Stan’s laugh ended shortly when the man glared at him. “Oh. Okay, Blendin. It’s nice to meet you. I guess I won the jackpot that you found me.” 

The man scoffed. “H-hardly, I came here because of you.” He explained, “I’m from the year 207012, I work for the TPAES. Time paradox avoidance enforcement squad. Your presence here caused a major anomaly blip on our scanners, this entire parallel universe isn’t supposed to exist. You b-breaking the block-blockade into the Nightmare Realm really put it on the radar.” He continued to fiddle with his watch, growing agitated. “Oh jeez, I can’t get a signal through this dim-dimension.” 

“What does that mean?” Stan wrung his hands together, glancing around. The environment changed every time he turned away, and the cavernous setting was now vast emptiness around them. From the darkness they heard laughter and the ground shook as monstrous creatures moved in the distance. Voices carried in the emptiness, speaking a language Stan didn’t recognize. 

“Well, after se-seventy-two hours of not reporting st-status updates I’ll be declared missing in action and a search party will be sent out to my last known location.”

Stan brightened. “So they’ll find us, we just have to stay alive.” 

Blendin shook his head. “This place is practically inhospitable. The things that live here have adapted to s-survive, but we won’t last long. Sooner or later big, bad things will pick up our scent.” Beads of sweat collected on his hairless head, accumulating in the skin folds at his neck. “If I can’t get this thing to send out a distress signal, we’re dead.” 

The dread Stan felt was consuming. There was a buzzing in his head and the ground rose to meet him. On his hands and knees he could only breathe, open mouthed and loud but he couldn’t hear it over his heart beat. His lungs burned despite his heavy breathing and he swooned. 

“H-hey!” 

 

He woke up on a hospital bed. He knew it was a hospital bed because starchy sheets that smelled of antiseptic covered him. Stan blinked, and it was as if he was waking from a deep sleep. The bed was warm with his body heat and an EKG machine beeped somewhere to the side. He tried to turn his head but found he couldn’t move. He couldn’t swallow and his mouth overflowed with saliva. His nose was blocked and he couldn't breathe. 

Stan tried to sit up, kept flat on the mattress by three straps. His eyes darted, catching glimpses of the room. The ceiling was a stark white, made brighter by fluorescent lighting. He saw no curtains and figured he must be in an actual room. How long had he been here? Why was he restrained? Had the law caught up with him? 

A door was open, and he heard the click of shoes on linoleum. Nearer and nearer, and then the footsteps faded. 

He had to get out of here. He had to get home. But he didn’t have a home. Not since Pa kicked him out.

He needed to get to the kids--what kids? Oregon, he had to get to Oregon. 

What was in Oregon? 

Angry hornets buzzed in his head and the room became decayed and filthy. Someone was calling his name, shaking him. The room crumbled, the walls and ceiling collapsing in puffs of dust. 

Stan’s eyes, glossed by fever, fluttered open. 

“Y-you’ve b-been out for h-h-hours!” Blendin said shrilly, his stutter worsening the more panicked he became. 

Stan moaned weakly, “mom? I don’t feel so good. Can I stay home?” 

“I am not your mother!” Blendin squawked.

Stan didn’t respond, too caught up in the unbearable ache that had seized him. His skull was lined with sandpaper and his tongue was a rag stuffed in his mouth. A familiar chill spilled over him and he was taken back to that snow storm in Michigan, body hunched stiffly into itself as he waited for death to take him. Maybe a state trooper hadn’t knocked on his foggy window at all. Maybe he hadn’t left his car alive, and this was some kind of personal hell. 

He chuckled to himself and mumbled, “I shouldn’t ‘ave drank that water. Drank… the water in Mexico, too. Wasn’t this bad.” The delirious man laughed, “I’m gonna die.” 

Blendin cursed. He’d underestimated the duration of sanity Stan had, and the man was slipping into madness to early. Blendin felt no responsibility for him, and if he saw his chances of survival rising by ditching Stan he’d do it in an instant. But there was safety in numbers and right now, in spite of being incapacitated, Stan was still more of an asset than a liability. The smell of his festering illness might even be acting as a repellent to hungry creatures. It would explain why he had survived as long as he had by himself. 

Blendin didn’t have time to ponder the subject any more because the ground again shook beneath them.

“We gotta move, the things are--” The world spasmed, blackness warping. “--Falling apart!”

Stan staggered when he stood, Blendin wrapping an arm around his torso to keep him upright. They tried, and failed, to outrun the deteriorating region. Out of the woodworks burst the dimensions local dwellers, a mob of monsters enclosing them. It was a zoo of creatures scrambling over each other, all trying to escape the collapsing area. Stan and Blendin were left in the dust, the decimating nothingness almost upon them. 

A few feet ahead of them a swirl of color appeared in the air. Blendin wordlessly bolted towards it, dragging Stan along. 

Slurred, Stan said, “are we going home?” 

They passed through the portal and the opening closed them off from a dimension of nightmares. 

Stan wasn’t fully alert, but it felt as if the air had suddenly become fresh. The tendrils of pain ensnaring his head loosened and he slid out of insanity's clutches. 

 

Each hour that passed, each hour they were closer to looking for a body. Fiddleford and Stanford worked nonstop. Many pots of bad coffee later they were back in the basement. Dipper and Mabel stood close together, both trying not to cower under the memory of Bill’s attack. The sight of them afraid, and knowing he was the cause, made Stanford want the ground to open up and swallow him. 

He steeled himself. They may as well have been Stanley’s kids, they loved him like family. They had loved Ford as if he were family. And he returned their love with distrust. He had to be strong, not for himself, but for them and Stanley. He had to get Stan back for them. 

His brother had so much living left to do. He’d come back and if Stan could give him another chance Ford would spend the rest of his life making it up to him. They’d get that boat and sail the world if that’s what Stan wanted. He’d help raise the kids, he’d send them to college. Stan just had to come home. 

“Ya ready?” Fiddleford asked, rope dangling from his hand. Ford nodded and sat on one of the kitchen chairs they’d brought down. Fiddleford bound his wrists and ankles to the chair and rechecked the ‘mind reading’ device that Ford had altered to scramble his thoughts. The helmet and the barrier around the property should be sufficient to keep Bill out, but Ford wasn’t going to risk anyone's life again. 

“Can ya get out?” 

Stanford tugged at the restraints. “These are secure.” He said, surprised. 

“I grew up on a farm, I can tie a knot.” Fiddleford’s tone held a hint of jest and Ford forced a smile. Fiddleford straightened and looked to the kids, the exhaustion etched into his face softening. “You two ready?” 

Mabel and Dipper nodded, now wearing looks of undaunted determination. Stanford remembered being a child with Stan at his side, feeling like they could take on the world. Looking at the kids was like looking into a mirror to the past. They acted as support for one another, drawing strength from the other when one was weak. 

He and Stan had been that way. 

If Stan came home, they could be that way again. It wasn’t cold in the basement but Ford shivered. He took a steadying breath and nodded. Fiddleford returned the gesture and led the twins to the control room where they stayed, faces pressed to the glass. He tethered himself as well, taking no chances of anyone else falling victim to the portals pull. Fiddleford held Ford’s gaze and activated the portal. It chugged and whined, and for a terrifying moment Ford feared it wouldn’t work. Then the light bulbs lit up and the portal swirled to life. The sheen of light formed, undulating at its edges. Its circumference swelled and contracted, a sign of instability. 

Ford’s heart thumped hard in his chest. He held his breath. 

A figure began to emerge from the vapors. It took more of a defined shape and finally two forms came through the portal, dropping to the floor. 

“Shut it down!” Ford shouted. 

Fiddleford hit the button and the portal shut off. The air tingled with energy and smelled of ozone. Before running to Stanley Fiddleford yanked the portals main engine plugs from their outlets. 

Dipper and Mabel were breeze passing him as they ran to Stan. They each took one of his sides, on their knees and unsure if it was safe to rejoice yet. 

“Grunkle Stan?” Mabel’s voice was small, her hands hovering over his still body. 

Fiddleford joined the kids, flipping the man onto his back. The engineer pressed two fingers to his neck and whooped.

“He’s alive!” 

A collective sigh of relief overcame them. Never had such beautiful words been spoken. Alive--blessedly, wonderfully alive. The brokenness of his heart was mended with those words. Ford was resurrected with those words. 

Fiddleford and Mabel continued fussing over Stan while Dipper stood, stunned, at the side of the other person. 

“Blendin?” he asked. Mabel gasped. 

“Time Travel Guy!” 

The man sat up, a hand pressed to his head, glowering. “You two are in so much trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, things are winding down. Everyone needs to give up their secrets and there must be hugs. Many hugs. One or two more chapters after this, I think.  
> Comments are appreciated and very much loved.


	12. Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dipper and Mabel face a hard decision and the author is finicky and decides to edit chapter post publication.

It wasn’t two seconds after Fiddleford was done untying him that Ford was skidding on his knees before Stan. He immediately checked him for traumas, amazed to find that besides a fever Stan bore no visible injuries. 

“Fidds, help me carry him upstairs.” 

Fiddleford ducked under one of Stan’s arms and they lifted him, the slender man immensely grateful they had an elevator to the house’s ground level. Mabel and Dipper followed close behind them, gravitating to Stanley. Behind them was Blendin, huffing irritably. 

They laid Stan on Ford’s bed, the man’s face twisting. He did not awake and Ford stood vigilant at the bedside. 

“Fiddleford, could you take the kids?” He didn’t want to separate the kids from Stan again, but he needed to get Stan into new clothes. After his twin woke he’d have to take a decontamination shower and Ford would burn his old clothes and the bedding to be thorough. Should they take him to the hospital? He’d guess Stan’s fever was bacterial, in which case they could get him antibiotics. If it was viral… Stanford hoped it wasn’t viral. But if it was he would be the first person to cure viral infections. 

On their way out, the kids had stopped in the doorway. They cast a long glance at Stan, his jaundiced complexion now obvious against the bed sheets. Ford tore himself from his brothers side and knelt in front of the kids. 

“I know up to now I’ve failed you, I know you have no reason to trust me or my judgement, but I promise I will do everything in my power to make sure Stan is safe. I will not fail you,” he met Fiddleford’s eyes, “any of you, again.” 

Dipper’s worry was somewhat quelled, but Mabel’s gaze didn’t leave Stan’s still form. She was mute as Fiddleford gently pulled her away. Ford shut the door behind them, knowing he’d have another breakdown if he had to witness Mabel’s woeful face a second longer. Why couldn’t Stan be fine? Ford exhaled, laughing mirthlessly. It was his fault this happened. To think that Stan would come home unaffected was foolish. 

But now was not the time to lament. Stan needed him to act with a clear head and that’s what he was going to do. Ford stripped Stan of his clothes, revealing a myriad of scars. These marks were not from his time in the portal, these were from a decade of living in a harsh world. There were healed scar wounds, cigarette burns, and was that a bullet hole scar? Ford blinked back tears and redressed Stan. Old traumas weren’t his concern right now. Those were healed, whatever illness plaguing Stan was in the present and possibly deadly. He had to focus. 

His thumb swiped Stan’s eyelid up and Ford leapt back. His heart beat against its cage and Ford inhaled deeply. He lifted the eyelid again, realizing that the yellow tinting Stan’s eyes was a symptom of jaundice and not Bill. That meant there was a buildup of bilirubin in Stan’s system, which was either caused by overproduction of bilirubin or liver failure. Stan hadn’t showed any symptoms prior to go through the portal, so that ruled out an obstruction in the bile duct. 

How had his symptoms progressed so quickly? Stan was in the portal for less than twenty-four hours. What kind of disease had he contracted? Did time pass differently on the other side? Was what had been hours for Ford been days for Stan? Ford’s gut clenched. 

That was a question he could ask Stan when he woke up, for the moment he had to problem solve. Steroids were treatment for jaundice, and with how far along Stan seemed to be dialysis might be necessary. A dialysis machine wasn’t something he kept on hand, but he couldn’t take Stanley to the hospital. If he did have a foreign disease taking him to a hospital would expose other people, many of whom would have compromised immune systems. In a worst case scenario it could cause an epidemic. 

No, he had to find a way to treat Stan here. 

Stanford poked his head out the door and called Fiddleford. He appeared minutes later, the earlier stress wracking his frame released. 

“How is he?” 

Ford said nothing for a moment, and he saw some of that stress grab ahold of his friend again. “It’s not good. He’s jaundiced, and it’s far along. If it’s a disease that we don’t have here we can’t take him to the hospital. I’d like you to keep an eye on the kids and yourself for any symptoms.” 

Fiddleford was about to reply when another voice joined the conversation. 

“He said he drank the water.” Fiddleford and Ford turned to Blendin. 

“A waterborne disease, then.” Ford muttered, mind going over a list of possibilities. He began pacing, pausing to look at Blendin. “Who are you?” 

Fiddleford answered for Blendin, “he’s a time traveler.” 

“Of course he is.” Ford’s fingers combed his wild hair back. “Where did I put those medical books?” He wondered aloud. 

“N-no need.” The man stepped forward proudly, pudgy fingers tapping at his wristwatch. A red light flashed on the watches front and he moved his arm, scanning Stanley. Moments passed and the device beeped. Blendin squinted. “I-in your time, the disease he has is called ‘l-leptospirosis’.” He stumbled over the last word, looking for recognition in Fiddleford and Ford. 

Ford’s face had gone blank, memories and facts pinging in his mind. He’d done pre-med in college because it went towards one of his PhD’s, and the payoff couldn’t have been greater. Advanced leptospirosis was called Weil’s Disease, and the treatment was...

“Antibiotics!” Ford exclaimed. “I have penicillin in the lab!” He ran out of the room, followed by the two other men. 

“Why in tarnation do you have penicillin?” Fiddleford yelled after him. 

“I was using it in an experiment.” 

“Darn it Stanford, hold on a cotton pickin’ minute. We can take ‘im to a hospital and let a MEDICAL doctor take care of Stan. Do you even know how to administer it?” 

Fiddleford followed Stanford to the lab, eyebrow cocking as the man retrieved an IV stand. “Intravenous administration.” He said, the ghost of a smirk twitching his mouth. He set it down and started rummaging again. “I read a…” he paused, dumping the contents of a box on the floor. “Bunch of med books I got from the library, and I,” he coughed, “didn’t return some of them. Or any of them.” He snatched up the thick hardcovers from the floor and leafed through a particularly worn one. “Here, I have all the stuff I need to reconstitute penicillin. Fiddleford,” he beamed, unabashedly gleeful. “He’s going to be okay. Help me.” 

Fiddleford sighed, a smile cracking across his face. Truly, Ford could do anything if he set his mind to it.

 

“Do you think Grunkle Stan is okay?” Mabel paced the room while Dipper chewed on a pen. 

“I don’t know.” He said honestly. 

“Fiddleford’s been gone for a long time.” Mabel walked faster. “I’m going to see Stan.” She started off confidently, Dipper fretfully trailing her. 

“McGucket said whatever Stan has might be contagious, he even told us to tell him if we feel weird.” He hugged his stomach. “And I have a stomach ache.”

Mabel rolled her eyes. “You always get a stomach ache when you’re nervous. Remember the first day of kindergarten, you blew chunks all over the teacher.” 

Dipper’s cheeks reddened. “I didn’t remember, but now I do. So thanks.” He groaned. “Auh, I think my organs are dying.” 

Mabel was not deterred, passing the kitchen and then backtracking. Blendin’s head was in the refrigerator, the man’s hips swaying side to side as he sang to himself. Dipper and Mabel stared at him, both wearing perplexed expressions. They shared a grimace and Mabel silently continued to Ford’s bedroom, Dipper following after a moment of internal debate.

She climbed onto the bed and grasped Stan’s hand. “Wake up, you big dumb-dumb.” Her voice was heavy with emotion. “Wake up.” 

Dipper sat beside her, pulling her into a hug. They stayed that way, their small hands clinging onto Stan’s large one. A commotion in the hallway prompted them to turn, Ford bursting into the room, crazed happiness painting his features. 

“Kids!” He began to set up equipment, grin not leaving his lips. “Stan’s going to be fine. He’s contracted a bacterial infection and he just needs some antibiotics.” 

Ford tied a tourniquet around Stan’s upper arm and ripped open a plastic bag. To himself he muttered, “where did I put that bed pan?” 

Fiddleford clapped, “okay kids, let’s let Ford work his magic.” He ushered them out. He silently wondered how a man that was not a doctor had, and knew how to use, an IV, penicillin, and was still stupid enough to make a deal with a demon. A demon that in order to summon he had to read specific instructions warning him that, under no circumstances, should Bill ever be summoned. How could a person so incredibly smart be so stupid? No mystery in Gravity Falls compared to that of the enigma named Stanford Pines.

 

Fiddleford and the kids settled in the living room. Now that they knew Stan was going to live the weights pressing on them were lifted. Dipper flopped onto the floor, limbs outstretched. Mabel sat, body loose, a few paces from her twin. She closed her eyes and exhaled, the exhaustion of the last day catching up to her. Their secret was out and no one was lost to the portals other side. 

What if they hadn’t gotten him back? What if it had taken Ford thirty years to get Stan home? She and Dipper would have been forty-two before seeing Stan again. Ever worrying and wondering if he was dead or alive, if he was warm enough or had food to eat. Mabel had always been sympathetic with her Grunkles plight, but going through what he had for a day made her heart ache for the man. How had he done it? Mabel was sure she’d get an ulcer if she had to suffer this last day for thirty years. But when they came to Gravity Falls she and Dipper sensed nothing amiss. Was he simply a master actor, or did the anguish fade into the background of daily life? 

What is she had lost Dipper? She didn’t think she had the strength to go on as Stan had. She couldn’t imagine picking up the pieces of her broken heart and stitching them together. How had Stan kept from falling apart at the seams? Mabel was sure she’d have given up, but Stan persevered for three decades, not knowing if his twin was alive or dead. 

Mabel shook her head and those thoughts away. What-if’s needn't be pondered. Stan was back, and the prospect of losing him made her longing for home lessen. She and Dipper were together and while she’d miss their parents dearly, she knew she could love this life. The lie they’d been living was one she could convince herself to believe. She’d failed to see Stanley’s hidden pain, but this younger version didn’t have the same defenses. His walls, brick upon brick, built thick and tall, weren’t there. Ten years on his own had toughened him, but he still helped them. He had so little in the world and he shared it with them. 

The summer of 2012 was the first time she could remember meeting Stan, but after three short months she couldn’t imagine life without him. From the moment he took them in she sensed the love he felt for them. Inexplicable, it must have been for him, to care about children he didn’t know. 

Thus remained the question: did they tell him the truth? Stan didn’t know they were his relatives from the future, wasn’t aware of the history he’d have endured if they’d not intervened. He didn’t need to know. He could wake up to a world where everyone was willing to play pretend roles in a real family. And there was no true downside to telling him, either. Sparing him the harsher details would be no crime. 

Now that Bill had revealed himself as the sociopath he was and Ford realized everything the demon spoon fed him had been lies, they could move on. Like Stanley, this version of Ford was not as jaded. From the moment he stepped out of the portal Mabel had only seen Ford act with reined resentment and civility towards Stan. This younger Ford, not changed by thirty unwilling years spent abroad, was still initially unsure of Stan. Yet the morning after their arrival he did not act coldly towards Stan. Ford had been making a substantial effort to mend his relationship with Stan. Mabel and Dipper were left many times under Fiddleford’s supervision while Stan and Ford ran errands. 

The aged Grunkle she’d known hated shopping and outings in general, but each time they returned Stan’s face was alight with happiness. Ford was no less expressive, his smile betraying him. They’d stepped into the rhythm that had taken a ten year hiatus. 

Telling them the truth had no obvious consequences, but she was hesitant to threaten the delicate dynamic their family was built on. Realistically, it wouldn’t change anything. Stan wouldn’t stop loving them. Ford wouldn’t send them away. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was they needed to tell Stan the truth.

“Dipper, what’s that thing Mark Twain said?” 

Dipper’s head lifted off the floor, one eye open and swung in her direction. His head thudded on the carpet as he let it fall. “About what?”

“About telling the truth.”

“If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything.” Fiddleford answered from his position on the couch. 

“Ooh.” Dipper said understandingly. He stared at the ceiling, eyes wide, contemplating. “Well,” he trailed off. “Well.” He propped himself up on his elbows. “Stan’s the only one who doesn’t know. We can tell him when he wakes up.”

Mabel smiled at him, and Dipper smiled back. 

“Speaking of which, Stan won’t be awake for a while. Why don’t you two get some shut eye?” 

Mabel and Dipper groaned, both flopping onto the floor. Fiddleford chuckled. “Go on upstairs and grab your pillows. We can put on a movie and nap down here.” 

 

Where was he? He was lying on a bed, not his car seat. The room didn’t smell sterile or of chemicals and the bedding beneath him was soft. He remembered being in a vaguely horrible place, but now the memories escaped him. At the time they’d been so vivid, and with wakefulness the details were slipping out of this head. Maybe, he thought, he’d dreamt the entire thing. 

A sound wormed out of his dry throat and something on the mattress shifted. 

“Stanley?” 

He opened his eyes, greeted by the sight of his unshaven brother. The overhead lighting was too bright for his unadjusted eyes and Stan winced. 

“Aug, how much did I drink?” 

Ford blinked. “Stan, Stan,” he laughed in earnest. “You’re not hungover.” his demeanor turned serious. “How do you feel?” 

“Like I got hit by a truck.”

“What’s the last thing you recall?” 

Stan thought back, a sick feeling knotting in his stomach. “I… went through that thing in the basement?” 

Ford nodded, remorse making his shoulders slump. “Stanley, I am so, so sorry.” 

“Heh, ‘s fine. You got me back, didn’t you?” 

“Y-yeah, I guess I did.” Ford sat numbly on the edge of the bed. “I got you back.” Tears wet his eyes and Ford flung himself on Stan, hugging him. Stan yelped and Ford pulled away.

“Sorry!” He checked the IV in Stan’s arm. “I forgot about that.” 

Stan followed his gaze to the IV and then to the stand and drip bag. “Ford… why are we not in a hospital?”

His brother rubbed the back of his neck. “I had everything to treat you at home. I apologize, but I assure you that I was very capable of--”

“Sixer, Sixer! It’s fine, I hate hospitals. You get sicker being there for some quack to give you a prescription than you do riding it out.” 

Ford couldn’t agree with his logic, but he was glad Stan didn’t appear to be holding any grudges. “Where are the kids, are they okay?”

“The kids! They’ll be so happy you’re up!” Ford darted out of view and a minute later was dragging in bedraggled Dipper, Mabel, and Fiddleford. The twins eyes lit up and they scrambled onto the bed.

“Grunkle Stan!” They exclaimed, mindful of his IV as they burrowed into either one of his sides. 

“Miss me?” 

Their holds tightened and wet spots blossomed on Stan’s shirt. He covered their shaking bodies with his arms. Mabel rubbed her face into the fabric of his shirt and sent a questioning look to Fiddleford. He nodded. 

“Grunkle Stan, we have something to tell you when you’re feeling better.”

 

It was another few hours before Stan was deemed fit to receive the news. He was forced to shower, eat, and undergo a physical examination that Ford insisted on. They had seen each other naked many times as children and teenagers, and they were identical twins, it shouldn’t have been embarrassing. But every time Ford’s fingers traced a scar his brother became unbearably sad. Stan hated seeing him that way, burdened by his own recklessness.

Eventually they were all seated in the living room, the curtains open to let in the afternoon light. The kids and the adults looked equally anxious. 

“Stanley,” Fiddleford said tentatively. “The kids have something to tell you.” 

“Grunkle Stan,” Dipper began. “We’re not street kids. Mabel and I… we’re you’re great niece and nephew from the future.”

To his credit, Stan didn’t outwardly show his disbelief. He glanced at Stanford, and then to Fiddleford. They each nodded their confirmation. Stan’s widened eyes returned to the kids. 

“H-how?” 

“We came here by accident, we didn’t intend for you to find us. But after you did Mabel and I decided to change some pretty horrible things we knew were going to happen.” 

They told him about their outlandish summer with him, up to the day they were sent back in time. He’d punched a pterodactyl in the eye to save Mabel’s pet pig and fought his way through a mob of zombies to protect the kids. He’d run his own business for thirty years, and he’d been successful. Stan Pines, a high school dropout, had taught himself engineering and physics.

When the kids finished Ford stepped forward and told his part of the story. He told them how he’d been fooled by Bill’s flattery, believed the demon was his friend. By the end the man’s hands were trembling and he was fighting back tears.

“Wow. Just… wow. Well, I guess that actually kind of makes sense, about you kids I mean. You were always a step ahead of me, just like a good con-man. But… what now? Fidds and Ford can probably fix your time machine, and I’m sure the old me is missing you a whole lot.”

Mabel and Dipper stiffened, the idea not one they’d thought of. Suddenly given the option to go home, they both found themselves hesitant. They loved their uncles and Fiddleford, leaving them was a prospect too painful. 

“I’m sure we can figure this out--” Fiddleford said, cut off. 

“What’s going to happen now is you two are going home, and this whole splinter timeline is going to be erased from existence.” 

All eyes turned to Blendin, who stood in the doorway with his legs spread wide and his arms crossed. 

“No!” Mabel cried. “You can’t! Not when we fixed everything.” Blendin’s glare softened. 

“T-this isn’t even my call. Someone else will notice this and put in the order to demolish it.”

Mabel wailed and clung to Stan. Dipper was quiet and thoughtful, hand on his chin. 

“What about Globnar?” he asked.

“What about Globnar?”

“You challenged us to Globnar, can’t we challenge you and get the paradox-free wish from Time Baby?”

Blendin frowned, thinking. “Globnar is only something you can call upon when you’re facing a Time Trial. Otherwise every Dick, Tom and Harry would enact on it.” 

Dipper hit his fist on his palm. “So charge us with a crime, we have to have committed one. We’ll invoke Globnar, you let us win and we can wish for this universe to be spared and choose whatever fate you want.” 

“Hold yer horses,” Fiddleford said loudly. “What is ‘Globnar’?”

“It’s a series of challenges, the winner gets a wish. We’ve done it once before.” Dipper explained.

“And we aced it!” Mabel added. 

“Is it dangerous?” Fiddleford demanded, hands on his hips. 

“No.” Dipper said immediately. 

“Nah, child's play.” Mabel moved to stand beside Dipper, grinning too largely. 

“It really was.” Blendin groused. “I want to be a judge, I’m tired of these fieldwork missions.”

“You’ll help us?” Dipper asked hopefully. Blendin regarded him for a moment and nodded. 

“Just remember, District Time Court Judge.” 

The kids moved to stand by Blendin. “We can do this.” Dipper said, standing tall. “We have to do this.” 

 

As he’d proven before, Fiddleford was the most responsible of the adults. He discussed things with Blendin at great length before conceding that letting them proceed was the best course of action. 

“Okay, one more time. You two are high profile so processing will go very fast, you’ll have a hearing right after booking. Time Baby will be presiding, at the hearing when he asks for your plea you need to challenge me to Globnar. If you win, it negates the charges against you. You’ll make your wish and I won’t have to deal with this grunt work anymore.”

“That judicial system sounds completely ridiculous.” Stanford muttered dryly. 

“Man, I could have avoided prison in three different countries if that’s how we did things.” Stan said. 

Blendin ignored their commentary and handcuffed the kids. “Ready?” 

Two nods answered him. “Alright.” He grabbed his tape measure. 

“Wait, that’s broken.” Mabel said. 

Blendin guffawed. “I fixed it while you were all busy. The tape got bent and the whole thing was smashed around, some circuitry had to be soldered into place, but other than that it was okay.” 

Fiddleford, who’d been standing by silently, piped up. “I’m confused. You said it went through a wormhole, which sent it into the past, that’s how the twins got here. So it has no discernible point of origin, but you didn’t mention it having problems before it went into the wormhole. How did it break?” 

Blendin’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He looked to the kids. “What happened, anyway?”

They told him how they’d stumbled upon it and how it had activated. Blendin said nothing for a long time. 

“We have no way of knowing it went directly from point to point. It could have gone anywhere else in the universe before ending up where they found it.” He said. “It’s possible someone else tampered with it trying to get to that date and the tape snagged. When you two found it you must have jostled it in a way that made the tape snap. That’s really all I can think of, from what you’ve told me.” He held up the device, fingers grasping the tape measures tip. “Let’s get this over with.” 

 

“You, Dipper and Mabel Pines, are charged with reckless time endangerment and illegal use of a Time Agents time travel device. How do you plead?” Time Baby’s voice boomed throughout the courtroom and Dipper held his chin up.

“We challenge Blendin Blandin, the arresting officer, to Globnar.” 

“Globnar.” Time Baby repeated. “Tell you what, you plead guilty and I’ll only sentence you to one hundred years of jail time.” 

“No, we’d really prefer Globnar.” 

Time Baby gave a long, exaggerated groan. “Very well.” 

 

The twins breathed heavily, burning lungs making the sting of cuts and scrapes fade. They had made it to the end, and Dipper was certain that the game's difficulty had been increased from the last time. This time instead of just a cyclops they also had to defeat a horde of harpies, but they’d made it to the final challenge. 

Blendin had kept neck and neck with them, not wanting Time Baby to suspect their ruse. 

“And now, the final challenge, the ancient art of laser tag.” Time Baby announced. “Goodluck, and watch out for the electric snakes.”

“Electric wha--” Mabel screamed, jumping on one leg while hugging the other. 

“We add extra obstacles for anyone who’s not a first timer. Get zapped three times and you automatically forfeit to your opponent.”

“That’s not fair!” Mabel snapped. “Ow! Gosh darn it!” 

“Auh!” Blendin cried out, the sizzle of singed flesh audible. “This is worse than paintball!” 

“Ooh, we should play that next.” Mabel said.

Dipper darted for the wishing orb, zigzagging and pushing forward when zapped. He tripped over one of the slithering snakes, getting zapped for a second time. The boy was down only a moment, running so fast he thought his feet might lift off the ground. A sparking snake darted across his path and Dipper jumped, launching himself towards the orb. 

“We have a winner!” Time Baby’s voice reverberated through the arena and Dipper felt all the tension leave his body. 

“I wish for the universe we created by going back in time to be allowed to exist, and we want Blendin to be a District Time Court Judge.”

Time Baby didn’t seem the least bit surprised by their wish and with a wave of his hand it was done. “You may choose to stay in that universe if you like, but wherever you choose you must stay there. Leaping between timelines causes the space time fabric to unravel. Judge Blendin, if you’d be so kind as to escort these two home. I need to get back to my napy-nap.” 

“O-of course, Time Baby.” 

The gigantic baby clapped his hands together and transported from the arena. Blendin pumped his fist.

“We did it!” 

Mabel and Dipper nodded, the euphoria of victory dampened by the decision they now faced. 

Blendin looked at them expectantly. “Where to?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh! Are we almost done? Woo-hoo! Okay, wow, that was long. What did you think? Feedback is really appreciated.  
> After this they'll be a short epilogue, which should tie up any loose ends and answer any remaining questions.  
> Thank you to everyone who left a kudos or a comment! You all kept me writing.  
> EDITED 11/2/17: Okay, I'm guilty of writers remorse. I posted this thinking I wanted to end the story with this chapter and in the end I knew I could do better. I apologize. If you didn't read it before editing, the twins go back home and the pacing is super crappy. So they'll be a few more chapters, the main reason being is that I'm not ready to say goodbye to this story yet.


	13. The Price of a Wish

Minutes trickled by with insufferable slowness. The children had assured Stan that they would be safe competing in ‘Globnar’, but each minute they didn’t return his worry rocketed upwards. He had walked the room until his phlegm coated lungs demanded he sit. So he was back where he started; on the couch waiting for the kids. 

The fog in his head was rolling in again and pressure built behind his eyes. He bent forward, head dangling between his spread legs. He absentmindedly rubbed at his calves, the ache he hadn’t consciously noticed there waning. 

Goosebumps bristled across his skin and Stan shivered. He stood, the action causing a wave of lightheadedness. He staggered, glad that Ford and Fiddleford had left the room. He made his way to the kitchen, leaning against the wall for support. The kitchen was empty, but scattered ingredients and utensils suggested that Fiddleford had been there moments ago. 

Stan hastily drank a glass of water and sat on the floor, back flush against the warm oven. He pulled his legs to his chest, resting his head on his knees. His eyelids were heavy, and Stan slumped as sleep grabbed him. 

His dreams were black. Every time his head throbbed blood red pulsed through the blackness. It seemed to creep closer with every pulse and he was convinced that it would kill him. He was on the other side again. He felt the rough stone beneath his hands, but couldn’t back away from the advancing scarlet. 

Had it all been a dream? Had Stanford only saved him in his imagination? That was okay, Ford would come. Of course he would come. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe Ford hated him and was glad he was gone. Hot tears dripped down his stubbled chin. He rocked in place, wishing he had frozen to death in Michigan, or blown his brains out, or died on impact. Dying of dehydration locked in Rico’s trunk would have been preferable to this agony. 

An invisible creature sunk its talons into his shoulders and shook him out of his self-loathing stupor. Stan sucked in a sharp breath, eyes flying open. 

“Gracious, Stanley, are you alright?” 

The first thing to fill his field of vision was wrinkled fabric spotted with cherries. It was Fiddleford’s frilly apron. The slim man was knelt in front of him, his brow furrowed and his hand soft on Stan’s shoulder. He pressed his fingers to Stan’s fevered forehead and gasped. “You’re burnin’ up!” 

Stan mumbled unintelligibly, body following the cool relief of Fiddleford’s fingers. “Stanford!” Fiddleford fluttered over him, fear taking hold of his normally rational self. “Stanford!” he hollered. 

The man stumbled into the kitchen, arms thrashing wildly around him.

“Are the kids back?” His voice was thick with sleep. 

“It’s Stanley.” He couldn’t get out more words of explanation, but he didn’t need to. Stanford’s bleary eyes cleared immediately and he crouched beside his brother. 

“Stan, Stan can you hear me?” 

Stan was in a state of shock, his own hyperventilating gasps all he could hear. Ford was right in front of him, and it was a claustrophobic comfort. He focused on the movement of Ford’s lips and his breathing slowed, his hearing returning. 

Ford repeated his question and Stan nodded, the last vestiges of the nightmare disappearing. 

“He’s hotter than a tin roof in summer.” Fiddleford fretted. “We shouldn’t have unhooked him. I knew he couldn’t get better that fast.” 

Ford heaved Stan onto his feet, bearing the brunt of his weight. He dragged the man to the living room, unloading him onto the couch. Fiddleford kept babbling, on the verge of hysterics. 

“Fiddleford.” Ford said firmly. “Go get the IV stand and we’ll set him up here. Stan, we have to put the IV in again. Do you need to use the bathroom before we do that?” 

Stan was hunched over hugging his stomach. He nodded, grimacing as he rose. 

Ford waited outside the bathroom door, ready to help Stan back to the couch. Alarm pricked at the back of his neck when Stan’s shaky voice called for him. He entered the bathroom without a second thought. 

Stan stood facing the toilet, expressionless. Ford peered into the bowl and suppressed a gag. Stan’s urine was brown and poignant, and Ford fumbled for the toilets handle. 

“That’s just a symptom of the jaundice. Your body is overproducing bilirubin right now, but after you're done with the antibiotics you’ll be fine.” 

He kept Stan’s pace as they made the slow trek to the couch. 

“Whatever I have doesn't cause kidney failure, does it?” 

“In severe, untreated cases liver or kidney failure can occur, as well as meningitis. But you needn't worry, your current treatment of penicillin G should be sufficient to cure you.”

“What kind of doctor are you, again?” A smirk ghosted on Stan’s lips. “I’m glad you say that, because I only have one kidney, and my liver is shot.” 

Ford stopped abruptly. “Why didn’t you tell me?!” 

Stan shrugged, dropping onto the sofa. “You didn’t ask, and it was only relevant now. Does that change my medicine, Dr. Pines?” He wagged his eyebrows. 

“What happened to your kidney, Stanley?! Organs don’t just up and walk away.” 

Stan snorted. “If my liver could it would. But the kidney is a long story. The short version is I was in Colombia for a heist and blacked out drinking. Woke up in a bathtub full of ice with a scar where my kidney should be.” He lifted his borrowed shirt to show Ford the proof. “Stitching was pro-quality though. Santiago, one of my cell mates, said I was lucky the guy who did it knew what he was doing. Amateurs almost always botch the job. He also said I was lucky they only took a kidney. The things we end up being thankful for, amirite?” 

Ford was speechless, his mind not processing the information he was being told. His brother, his baby brother, had lived a life that involved heists in Colombia and a casual attitude to organ theft. 

Stan’s face fell as he watched the thoughts flit through Ford’s head. “Hey, it was my own fault. I--”

“Don’t say that.” Ford growled. “Don’t say it was your fault. It was,” his voice cracked. “It’s my fault. Everything is my fault. You needed me and I turned my back on you. I built this stupid machine and you’re the one who suffers. I let Bill into my head. I basically pushed you myself!”

Ford ended his rant by sitting beside Stan, breathing irregular and harsh. Stan fell purposefully into him.

“We suck.” 

Stanford laughed despite himself. “That’s an understatement.” 

“I still love you, even though you suck.” 

Ford stiffened. Since Stan had reentered his life, they hadn’t actually said they loved each other. And for all he’d done, Stan hadn’t stopped loving him.

“I love you, too.”

“Well duh, how could you not? I’m amazing.” He nudged Ford playfully. Ford laughed, agreeing fully. 

Fiddleford helped get Stan situated and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Ford alone again with Stan. Ford’s voice died in his throat when he tried to ask Fiddleford to stay. The past day he’d have slit his wrists to have Stan back in his home, and now that they were in the same room Ford was afraid. Afraid he’d hurt him. Here Stan was, vulnerable and weak, unbothered that Ford had endangered all of them. His being sick was a direct result of Ford’s actions. 

Stanford would do anything to ensure Stan’s recovery, he’d give him a kidney if the need arose. But bringing Stanley home and treating him had done little to assuage his guilty conscience. That was merely righting his most recent wrongdoings, he had yet to make up for a decade of abandonment. The worst part was that Stan hadn’t even been mad at him. He had every right to be livid, to bruise his knuckles beating in Ford’s face, and still he forgave him. Ford had done nothing to deserve such exoneration, but he was determined to earn it. 

So he waited for Stan’s beck and call, hyperaware of his brothers body language. Stan fought sleep, jerking awake each time his body relaxed. When his teeth began to chatter Ford covered him with a thin fleece blanket, insistent that he needed to keep his temperature down lest his fever spike. 

Ford sat on the dinosaur skull that had been unearthed when they dug out the basement. He flipped through the television channels, stopping on a soap opera that Stan had turned his head to watch. 

“You know being awake isn’t going to bring them back any faster.” 

“I know.” Stan said nothing else for a moment, a far away look on his face. “I just… would feel guilty if I didn’t wait up for them. Y’know? Make sure they get back okay.” 

Ford’s throat closed, saliva flooding his mouth. He swallowed and tried to smile. “You would have made a fine father, Stanley.” 

He glimpsed Stan’s face and knew he’d said the right thing. His brother looked touched, as if that had been the greatest compliment he’d ever received. Sadness made the expression crumble at it’s edges. 

“I had you fooled, huh?” 

Ford pursed his lips, thinking. “I believed you, yes. But the truth doesn't make me think you were faking how you feel about them.”

Stan inhaled deeply, sinking into the cushions. His cheeks were a splotchy red and Ford was about to get his thermometer when a thought struck him. 

“When’s the last time you ate?” 

Stan hummed, nodding off and jerking awake. “Breakfast… yesterday? Don’t remember. Don’t worry… gone longer with less. I’ll be… fine…” His head rolled on the pillow, eyelids fluttering.

“Stan, you need to eat something!” Ford left Stanley to doze and went to the kitchen.

Fiddleford stood at the sink, elbows deep in sudsy water. “Hey, Stanford. There’s some chicken in the oven, and that rice on the stove is ready.” 

Ford piled a bowl high with rice and overfilled a glass with water, some of it sloshing onto the floor as he walked. He coaxed Stan to eat, and the man was soon again sleeping. This time it was peaceful, no trace of nightmares on his features. 

Ford sat on the floor, back against the couch. He too dozed, mind fabricating the many nightmares that could have all too easily been reality. In the most vivid nightmare Bill was controlling his body and Stan had no idea. Bill opened his arms and Ford was helpless to stop Stanley from returning the embrace. He watched his brother’s eyes shut, a smile on his face as he hugged the imposter. Bill murmured something in his ear and Stan’s eyes snapped open, his arms seconds from retracting when his pupils dilated and his lips parted in a silent cry. Bill’s shoulders began to quake, a grin splitting Ford’s face, and the demon laughed madly as Stan dropped to the floor. 

Dark red stained his shirt, his unsteady hands covering the wound. Stan looked down at his abdomen and then to Bill, and Ford saw in Stan’s face that he didn’t understand what had happened. A thread of crimson spilled from the corner of his mouth along with a wet, guttural noise. Ford suddenly found himself in his body again. He dove to the floor, cradling Stan and desperately trying to stop the bleeding. But it was too late, and he was left crying over a corpse. 

Ford startled awake and spun around. The length of Stan’s body still covered the couch, no stab wound gaping in his stomach. He was not in the portal and he was not actively dying. Ford panted, lying limp on the carpet. 

He couldn’t sleep after that. He lay next to the couch, staring at the wood grains in the ceiling as his mind ran rampant. The kids had been gone for about an hour now and there was no visible change in Stan’s condition. He knew the antibiotics needed time to work through Stan’s system and that once they did he’d be fine. But waiting was becoming unbearable. He logically knew Stan would recover, and still the uncertainty had him in its grip. 

Until the kids were home and Stan was out of danger he would not feel at ease. Ford sat up and wandered the house, searching for Fiddleford. The blonde man was passed out on his bed, his clothes and shoes still on. He hadn’t taken his glasses off and they were skewed on his face. Ford gently removed the spectacles and placed them on the bedside table. As he regarded his friend a great sense of gratitude filled him. Who else would have stuck with him through this calamity? The man had kissed his son on the head and his wife on the lips before packing up and moving to another state because Ford asked him to. 

How long had it been since Fiddleford had seen his family? Too long, and it was because of Ford. Stanley was ill because of him. Fiddleford had been body slammed into a wall because of him. 

And Bill… Bill would now be an ever-present threat lingering on the horizon. The demon was kept at bay for now, but Dipper’s common sense of destroying the instructions for summoning him wouldn’t keep him in exile forever. The demon would find a way to hurt them. 

He gripped at an abused tuft of hair and went into his own sparsely furnished bedroom. The patchwork quilt on his bed was rumpled from Stan’s lying on it, and that was the sole clue to human inhabitants. Everything else felt cold and impersonal. His cursive handwriting on scattered notes looked unfamiliar. His journals, which had been a very extension of his being, were no longer important to him. 

An epiphany had dawned on him. Stanley, Fiddleford and the kids were important. Hours of research and anomalies could entertain him, but they would never care about him. His friends and family loved him. He had to protect them. At any cost necessary. 

Stanford checked on Stan once more, his fever was stable and the yellow tint to his skin had faded into sweaty pallor. The rapid progression of his symptoms made Ford again question the cause. It had advanced quickly and the treatment seemed to be taking effect quickly. Whether this stemmed from time passing differently on the other side or a mutation in the disease was unclear. Would Stan get better and better just to die violently at the finish line?

No. That wouldn’t happen. Ford wouldn’t let that happen. 

The man smoothed Stan’s mussed hair and descended into the laboratory. He scavenged the portals dissected carcass, six-fingered hand wrapping around what he’d been searching for. It was cold and heavy in his palm, and Stanford pocketed the metal piece. In his study, tucked away in a drawer, was a sample of bismuth he’d made. It joined the metal in his pocket. Ford secured the anti-Bill helmet on his head and while Stan and Fiddleford slept he slipped out the front door with a whisper. 

Ford’s stride was purposeful as he made his way into the forest. The sun had climbed into the western part of the sky and there were a few hours of daylight remaining. He’d made this hike once before in two hours, but today he made it in one.

The trees became more clustered the deeper he ventured into the forest, the beaten path forgone long ago. Sunlight trickled down through the canopy of leaves overhead. Moss blanketed the ground, the smell of wet dirt hanging thick in the air. Rings of mushrooms had begun cropping up and a breeze that did not disturb the leaves flowed around him. The sounds of the forest, the hum of insects and the song of birds, were silent. 

Thickets of trees and brush formed an impenetrable fortress. Unless one knew where to look. Stanford knelt at a bush laden with red berries and parted the foliage. Behind the greenery was a tunnel, branches woven together to form the shaft. Crawling on his hands and knees, Ford traversed the tunnel. 

The passageway opened into a secluded glade encircled by densely grown aspens. The leaves were not a typical green, but a flashing silver. Violet flowers were intertwined around the tree trunks and through the branches, perfuming the area with a delicate scent. As he emerged he heard the twinkle of flute notes, but when he stood the music ended. 

There was a murmur across the glade and an orb of light floated up to him. Within the light was a dainty feminine form, transparent wings beating the way a hummingbirds would. 

“It is the human with four eyes.” The fairy said in a language Ford understood only through telepathy. “Why have you come here, human?” 

Ford got on one knee and bowed his head. “I’ve come for your help, Queen Giselle. I need a wish.” 

There was uproarious chatter. “A wish, a wish, the human wants a wish!”

Giselle held up a silencing hand. “What would you have to trade me that I desire?”

“An eye,” one fairy called out. “Make the human three-eyes!” 

Ford offered the bismuth in cupped hands. The fairy was momentarily thoughtful. 

“What is your wish?” 

“I need this metal plate installed in my head, safely and without damaging my mental capacity.” Ford did his best to appear reverent. “Please.” 

“It can be done,” the fairy conceded. “For a greater price.” 

“I would give you a leg if you wanted it, but there is a demon scheming to destroy our world. I’m his vessel, and this will keep him from controlling my body. If Bill Cipher enters our world, it will be an apocalyptic catastrophe.” 

The fay queen bristled. “Cipher,” she and her underlings hissed, wings flaring angrily. “I will grant you your wish, human. In return you will not allow the demon dominion in this world.” Magic sparked, tangible and singeing on his skin. “Be warned, it shan’t feel pleasant.” 

Ford didn’t have a chance to reply. An ethereal light enveloped him and moments later he awoke in agonizing pain. It overwhelmed his senses, a burning agony that felt like his skull had been split open. It was all he could focus on. 

Breathing was an arduous task. The air scraped his throat with each breath, shredding his lungs. He swore he felt blood welling in his tattered lungs, but the hacking cough that followed was dry. How long this went on he didn’t know. His perception of time was nonexistent. Ford perceived pain and pain alone. 

Eventually the excruciating agony faded into something bearable and he managed to take in his surroundings. He was on the front porch with no memory of how he’d gotten there. The fairies must have taken pity on him and disposed of him there. There was no conceivable way he’d gotten here of his own volition. The sky was dusky purple, the mountain tips glowing orange as the sun set. His mind no longer utterly clouded by pain Stanford could deduce that he’d been gone for about two hours. How long he’d been lying paralyzed on the porch he couldn’t be sure. 

Had his absence been noticed? Had the kids returned? Ford waited a few minutes more before turning onto his front. His arms trembled as he pushed himself onto his hands and knees. He breathed in and out, mentally preparing himself to stand. The first attempt was so poor that he crawled the distance to the door. He clung to the knob and pulled himself up, leaning against the door. Black spots swarmed his vision and he twisted the knob as he fell forward, collapsing on the floor. 

 

When Mabel and Dipper appeared in the living room, Stan was asleep on the sofa and the house was quiet. Mabel automatically went to his side, favoring her good leg. She studied his face, as if trying to commit it to memory. The more she looked at this younger version of her uncle, the more she forgot the sixty year old version of him. But that was okay. Soon, it would be this Stanley's face she couldn’t picture. 

She reached to touch him, hand wavering before petting his long hair. It was surprisingly soft, kept silky by Stan’s ritualistic combing. She suddenly regretted never having asked him if she could braid it. She could have entwined summer flowers in the brown tresses. Now she would never have the chance. 

Dipper stood behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder. She turned away from Stan, eyes squeezed shut and leaking tears. Dipper’s arm curled around her shoulder and he lowered his head. 

Neither of them wanted to leave, but they also knew they couldn’t stay. Staying would be abandoning their family, and they both knew they were needed home. Grunkle Stan needed them now more than ever. His Ford was shunning him, and he needed the support of his other family. Maybe they could persuade their stubborn uncles to let go of the past and forgive each other as their younger selves had. 

The thought made Dipper hopeful and he bumped Mabel’s shoulder with his. 

“Stan and Ford are friends again, and McGucket isn’t crazy.”

Something between a sob and a whimper escaped her mouth and Mabel nodded, gritting her teeth around more cries. She hugged Dipper tightly. He held her, tipping the lid of his cap down. This Stanley was not gone to the portal or to thirty years rebuilding it, but he would be forever gone to them. 

Dipper looked back to Blendin, about to speak when he heard the front doorknob jiggling. It was followed by a thud and the twins exchanged a glance before going to investigate. 

The source of the noise was Stanford, passed out on the floor. Dipper ran to him, already thinking the worst. Bill had broken through the barrier and had taken control of Ford--Ford’s eyes were his own. 

Frozen to the spot behind him, Mabel said, “is it…” 

“It isn’t Bill.” Dipper quickly reassured. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him.” He stood, one hand on his hip. His mouth tugged into a frown, brow furrowing as he thought. He chewed on his lower lip and looked to Blendin. There really wasn’t any harm in asking… “Couldn’t we just stay for a while?” He asked imploringly. “Then we’ll leave forever.” 

Blendin shrugged. “Sure.” 

Dipper’s initial elation was cut short by suspicion. “What, just like that?” 

“It’s t-time travel, man. I’m just going to take you two back to a few hours after you left. In your universe, it’s like you never left.”

Mabel rubbed her head, the physics of time travel more than her mind could wrap around. 

“How long until we have to go back?” Dipper asked. 

“T-that actually is important. The longer you two stay here, the less your time matches up with your universes time. I-I-I’d say after another two months your time won’t stabilize at all with your worlds. So you could push it to…” he thought. “Five weeks, max, before you’re stuck here.” 

Dipper glanced to Mabel for approval. “Four weeks?” 

“Four weeks.” she agreed. 

“Thank you, thank you so much, Blendin.” Dipper didn’t think words could convey his gratitude. 

“Ah, jeez, you’re welcome.” The man activated his tape measure and was gone in an instant. 

An instant was all it took, Dipper thought, to change a life. 

He and Mabel returned their attention to Ford. They had a month to ensure their uncles would be okay. They had to make the most of their time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh, Ford, you silly goose. At least you're not making deals with demons anymore.  
> If you liked it, let me know! I love reading what you guys have to say :)


	14. Beaches are a Pines Thing

Mabel Pines took after Stanley. Reached out and seized the responsibility of protector. 

In daily life it was Dipper who was on the constant lookout for her well-being, something she was immensely grateful for. If she was left to her own devices she’d find herself in much too much trouble. Dipper was smart, a critical thinker. He could step back from a situation and look at it objectively. Where she applied emotion, he applied logic. Intelligence was his weapon, Mabel’s were kindness and foolhardy bravery. 

The summers before they came to Gravity Falls their family would visit Grandpa Shermie in Palo Alto. For a month she and Dipper were castaways, ship wrecked survivors marooned on the litter choked beach. They raced barefoot across the sand, soaking up the smell of salt and pollution. Behind them the city blared, cars roaring along the road, buses groaning as they shifted gears, sirens whining in the distance. Crying gulls circled overhead, dots against the cerulean sky that plummeted for the earth like a dive bomber to snatch up a soggy, discarded hot dog. 

The sound of the sea drowned out the city, leaving only the seagulls shouts and the slurping of the water rushing at the shore. 

Even in the early hours of the day the sun would scorch, sweat collecting in the crease of their ears and the crooks of their elbows. Shermie and their parents keeping a watchful eye, they’d dash out into the lapping waves. They plunged into the green ocean for only a moment before bobbing to the surface because of the life jacket strapped on by their mother. 

The beach was crescent shaped, sand tapering into coral reef on both sides. Although their parents watched them from the shade of an umbrella, the world had narrowed to them and the sea. Mabel’s feet scraped on the coarse coral as she scrambled up the reef, calling back at Dipper to follow. They discovered a tide pool. They’d stared, mesmerized, at the plethora of life. Tight lipped mussels and barnacles clustered on the outer rim, starfish and urchins lining the bottom of the shallow pool. Sea snails were suckered to the rocks and a gnarled starfish laid between dirty yellow anemones. Kelp hung limp in the water, waving its tendrils with the minute movements of the water. 

They’d decided at the time they could always live on the seaside. They could gather abalones in baskets made of yucca fibers or a rusted pail, pry them from the rocks and dry the sweet meat under the hot sun. They could fashion spears from driftwood and stand knee deep in the frothing, jade water, waiting for a fish to swim past. 

When lunchtime came their father barbecued skewers stabbing through chunks of steak and onion. They popped bites of meat into their mouths appreciatively. Shermie and their mother sipped from sweating glasses of lemonade. Mabel and Dipper opened the cooler treasure chest and popped the tabs of cola. 

Their skin browned as they built shelter from the elements out of flotsam, debris washed up from the sea. A glass bottle that they pretended once held a fellow castaways plea for rescue, a conch shell that a wave stranded. Dipper found it, and had presented it to Mabel with a gleam in his eyes. It was in pristine condition, tumbling through the water had not chipped its spikes. The outside was chalky white and sandy tan, its inside smooth with pink and orange swirls. Mabel had pressed it to her ear and pretended to talk to a mermaid. 

Those summers were spent almost exclusively playing on the beach. Running and hollering, or trying to out swim one another. Mabel always won. Her arms were wiry with muscle, her tan shoulders strong and salty. In the school months, Dipper did not venture from his gaming console or homework, whereas getting Mabel indoors was a challenge. 

The time spent outdoors must have been why her immune system was better. When Dipper took ill, Mabel was always less affected. Therefor she cared for her incapacitated twin. She was not afraid of the germs and was happy to sit beside him on his bed, reading to him or letting him win when they played video games. She was a natural caretaker. Doating on people came easily to her, and she kept Dipper hydrated and comfortable when he was sick. 

So when she had looked at Stan in Ford’s bed, motionless, the rise and fall of his chest shallow, it had hurt horribly. His mortality was suddenly all too real, and all too fragile. She was the self-proclaimed family doctor--nurse, now that they had a real PhD in the house. And now the real doctor was injured, so Mabel gave herself the task of returning him to health. 

“Old man--Fiddleford is sleeping.” Dipper announced, his pocketed hands and the sheepish hunch to his shoulders telling her that he hadn’t had the heart to wake the man. 

Mabel waved a hand. “That’s okay, lets get him snugly as a bug in a rug.” 

They stripped Ford’s bed and propped his head on the pillow, covering him with the blanket. Initially they had been terrified that he was hurt, but Dipper confirmed he didn’t have any visible injuries. The boy hadn’t seemed too worried, and he’d been around their universes Ford more than she had. Dipper, she surmised, would know when to be concerned. 

“He probably just needs to rest,” Dipper said, wanting to sound self-assured but failing. Everyone in the house needed rest, so they let Ford lay where he’d fallen instead of waking Fiddleford to move him. He sat heavily on the floor beside Ford, and Mabel noticed then how drained Dipper looked. Dark bags lined his eyes and his hair stuck out wildly. He unconsciously leaned back, reclining on Ford’s side. Dipper’s body slid downwards slowly, his eyelids drooping as exhaustion overtook him. Mabel smiled at the sight. 

“You wait with Ford, I’ll wait with Stan.” She didn’t stay for a response and trotted off to the living room.

The television was turned to a bad infomercial that reminded her of Stan’s retelling of his early days on his own. An entrepreneur, founder of Stan Co. Enterprises, creator of Stan-Vac, Sham Total, and Rip-Off bandaids. Mabel curled up on the floor, folded arms cushioning her head, and listened to the poorly scripted and poorly read sales pitch for a blender. As she drifted to sleep, she wondered what they might have changed if they’d gone farther back. What might have Stan’s life been if he hadn’t gotten kicked out?

Maybe he really could have been a ship's captain, plotting their course by the stars and letting the sea air make his mullet wild. That’s what the fanciful part of her wanted to think, but the more reasonable part of her knew that wouldn’t have been the case. Ships had mechanized navigation, and they delivered cargo or brought in hauls of fish. They didn’t hunt for adventure or chests filled with gold or ice chips and silver soda cans. 

When they visited Sherime, he told them about his youth after their parents left the room. He’d grown up as an only child, Stan and Ford long having left the nest. On a grainy black and white TV screen he watched the Vietnam war. Viet Cong, he’d said, an excited thirst flashing in his eyes. Mabel, older, wondered what it was that made certain people love war, live and yearn for it. When Shermie told them about war it was about the Gulf War, Operation Desert Storm. 

Stories about dry seas and sand dunes, glowing gold under the sunlight and filling his nostrils and lungs. A friend from Arkansas who cracked jokes and wrote poetry in a leather bound book he kept tucked in his back pocket. Stories their parents wouldn’t object to. Stories that created the illusion they were hearing something forbidden, something adult. 

But that day he talked about a black and white, TV war. Young men who went willingly to the alien country, or were yanked from weeping mothers based on their birthday. “That was one lottery no one wanted to win,” her grandfather had said. “When I was a boy, I didn’t know what had happened to my brother. Ma wouldn’t talk about him and he never called home. I used to wonder if he’d enlisted, trudged through the rice paddies and hunted Charlie in the forests.”

“What did happen to him?” Mabel had asked, hands scraping at the ripped upholstery of his chair. Shermie ruffled her hair. 

“He lives in Oregon and still never calls. Maybe you can visit him one of these summers, he’d love that.” 

That had been the end of it. It was just enough information to intrigue her, but not enough to later base theories on. Shermie talked about his brother only once, and had only mentioned one sibling. Talking about Stanley must have been taboo when he was growing up, and she could see why. Stan had faked his own death and assumed his brother's identity, and his own family had never known. To them, he remained the son who’d tragically died. To them, Stanford was the living Pines Twin. 

Mabel shifted to face Stan and scooted closer to the couch. Stan could have enlisted in the Vietnam war, and while she didn’t know much about it Mabel knew a lot of people died in that war. “The young men who came home were haunted, sometimes missing arms or legs, or their sanity, their faith.” Shermie spoke to the air, no longer seeing them. 

He’d jolted from whatever memory consumed him. At their frightened expressions he must have realized that wasn’t the sort of things he should tell children. There was no more talk of war or his mysterious brother, and Dipper and Mabel quickly forgot both. 

Laying pressed to the couch, close enough to feel the heat emanating from Stan’s fevered body, Mabel was finally able to sleep. In her dreams there was no war, only four children playing on the beach liked they’d been friends their whole lives. 

 

Mabel’s voice registered in his ears but her words did not. The girl didn’t seem to expect him to answer, anyway, and Dipper laid on the floor. His bones dug into hardwood uncomfortably and Ford shifted onto his back, still gone to the world. Dipper turned to face the man, throwing a scrawny arm over his chest. His fingers clutched at the fabric of his buttoned shirt as he fell asleep, an unconscious effort to keep the man from disappearing.

They’d almost lost Stanley, and he feared losing the one relative who understood him to his own foolishness. Ford was someone Dipper had felt close to long before they met. He’d read the man’s journal multiple times, analysing the words and the thoughts of the person writing them. His own Ford had quickly become his friend, the two on the same wavelength as Mabel and Stan were. Their personalities were so similar, and over the summer Mabel and Stan had turned into partners in crime. They had the same wacky sense of humor, feeding off one another's energy to come up with wild ideas and schemes. 

Dipper had been happy for his twin, glad she’d found someone who wasn’t off-put by her eccentric personality. And yet it was hard not to feel left out. Ford was a relief, someone who appreciated intelligence instead of mocking it. Mabel loved and accepted him, but she didn’t comprehend the inner workings of his mind. She knew the ins and outs of his personality, knew the secret to making him smile and what jokes would make him snort his drink. Ford knew how to make laser guns and play Dungeons, Dungeons, and more Dungeons. Dipper thought those were both impressive skills. 

Over the past day the frailty of life became a startling reality. It was so easy for everything to change. Stan had been gone and then returned to them, and now Ford’s life might be teetering precariously on the edge. He feared Ford had done what Dipper had thought about. A deal with the devil, a vow of protection for his loved ones. Let the world burn, but let my family go unharmed. He didn’t doubt Ford had at least considered it, and he prayed the man hadn’t given into the temptation. Bill would never uphold his end of a bargain, Ford was smart enough to know that. 

Yet it was a temptation most wicked. The image of them together, freedom stolen but their safety assured. Was it the reason Ford was passed out? Ford was too stubborn to give Bill what he wanted, at least the Ford he knew was. This younger version of him might be inclined to act so stupidly. Dipper hoped not. 

Bill had yet to conquer the world and he took that as a good sign. 

 

The agony was not so intense now. His head was on something soft and there was a small source of warmth clinging to his side. The summer afternoon had been warm, but he was freezing. Ford’s arm curled around the warmth, drawing it closer. Moving caused him to feel a moist spot on his shoulder and he opened his eyes. 

The warmth was coming from a sleeping Dipper, the wetness drool. Ford went rigid before relaxing slowly. He lay there, noticing the pillow and blanket he assumed the kids had gotten for him. The realization made guilt and thankfulness twist in his gut. After all he’d done, everyone continued to love him. It was humbling. He had shunned his own twin for ten years because of a school, and after endangering them all Stan, Fiddleford, and the kids still extended the olive branch. Dipper’s trust in him had to have been shattered, and the boy felt comfortable enough with him to cuddle him.

Ford, who had believed himself to be a genius, knew he could learn some things from his family. How he had been so inherently self-absorbed astounded him. And for all those years he had blamed Stanley for his selfishness, except it was clear to him that Stan had outgrown that part of himself. Maybe he hadn’t, but he was terrified of loosing Ford again and was willing to put up with anything. That idea made Ford’s heart sink. He resolved that, if that were the case or not, he would not let Stan down again. 

He needed Stan, he’d always needed him. Twins were born together, grew up together, and lived apart. But not in the way he and Stan had parted and lived. Years of time lost, returned to they by Mabel and Dipper. 

Ford smiled at the boy, thinking that the children truly were loved as Stanley’s or his own children. The love he felt was tinted bitter-sweet. No matter how much they loved the kids, they were not theirs. These kids had parents in another dimension, alternate great uncles. They had lives they couldn’t abandon. They had to go home. 

His face screwed up in pain, this time not from the metal plate in his head. He didn’t want to let them go. They had become so much to him in their short time together. They gave him back his relationship with Stanley, lifted Bill’s veil of deceit. 

The Pines families moxie had been legend, tales passed down from each generation, and he only now saw the value of those stories. Dipper and Mabel surpassed the Pines lore. 

Ford inhaled deeply and sat up carefully. Dipper did not awaken and Ford began the painstakingly slow trip to the bathroom. He leaned on the countertop, labored breathes sapping his strength. 

His reflection was a startling sight. A sleepless, greasy variant of himself he hadn’t seen since his first few months of living on his own. His skin was ashen and there were twigs caught in his hair. Normally tidy clothes were rumpled from his excursion into the forest.

The pipes gurgled as water came through them, spitting out the tubs spout. Ford climbed into the shower, steam filled the room. He lathered his grimey body with soap, thinking about what he had learned from the fairyfolk. 

They knew Bill, and did not care for him. The fairies were a breed he hadn’t had a chance to document scrupulously and it was possible they had been around the first time Bill came into contact with humans. The cave painting that detailed the encounter with Cipher spoke about a local shaman, Bill’s first puppet. The fairyfolk could have merely been spectators or active participants to the locals interactions with Bill. 

If they had been around to see it that meant they’d been alive for thousands of years. Or, like humans, they had some kind of documentation of historical events. Either way, their knowledge and dislike for Bill marked them as potential allies if the demon ever resurfaced. 

And there was no certainty that Bill would be able to physically enter their world again. They had effaced the part of the cave painting with his summoning instructions. He’d burned all his journal entries containing any information about summoning the demon. Those, and Bill-proofing the shack and his mind, were the only precautions they could take. Bill still had the ability to enter people's dreams and he could tell them how to summon him, find someone else to build him a portal. 

Their temporary measures could last a week or years. They might hold for a hundred years, and what was that to an immortal being? The hieroglyphs had a zodiac containing ten characters, and it said that it was the one true way to defeat Cipher. How had the natives, in their limited knowledge, discovered such a thing? Why hadn’t they used it themselves? Did it even work? 

Ford saw impossible things in Gravity Falls everyday, it wasn’t a stretch to believe that a God-like creature had given the solution to worshiping locals. They might not have had the ability to use the zodiac themselves, thus they detailed it for future generations. If the origin of the zodiac was a deity, did that eliminate the possibility of it not working? 

He had not come across any God-like beings in Gravity Falls. But it wasn’t unreasonable to hypothesise they were part of an ancient, dead race. Old world Gods, Zeus and Odin, might have been symbolic reputation of the unexplained or flesh and blood. After striking a deal with a demon, he’d become exponentially more open-minded. However, theories without evidence were not viable. 

From the information available to him he could form a few conclusions. The fairyfolk had knowledge of Cipher and had possibly been in contact with him, and the Zodiac was the only option they had so far for besting Bill. If the demon ever did surface again, that was their strongest line of defence. 

It wasn’t infallible, but it was all they had. 

Stanford wasn’t a man who ‘hoped for the best’. He worked to make things happen. This time he could do nothing but hope that Bill would leave their dimension alone. 

He stepped out of the shower and put on fresh clothes. He passed Fiddleford’s room and saw the man was gone. At the top of the stairs he stood, debating. Ford sucked in a breath and straightened, walking to his fate with dignity. 

Dignity that withered when he saw Fiddleford’s furious face. Everyone had congregated in the kitchen, Stan and the kids sitting at the table. Fiddleford was leaning against the counter, arms crossing when Ford entered the room. 

“Passed out on the floor, huh?” The man asked, a cutting sharpness edging his voice. Ford gulped and glanced at the other faces in the room. 

Stanley was silently watching him, eyebrows pushed together in concern. The kids looked of similar mind; curious and apprehensive. 

“I…” he could think of no good way to confess. “I went to see the fairyfolk and… got a wish.” Mabel’s eyes burst with wonderment. Fiddleford was not so easily swayed. 

“Go on.” The engineer ordered.

“I asked them to…” Words failed and he knocked at his head, a metallic sound resonating in his skull and in the room. Fiddleford’s stared slackjawed, the absurdity throwing a wrench in the cogs of his brain. 

The thin man spoke slowly, dangerously. “You actually got a metal plate in your head?” 

Ford inched back, regarding his assistant like a feral beast. “I was assured it wouldn’t affect my health or mental capa--”

“You could have died!” Fiddleford screamed. 

Ford’s hand flew to his head and he cradled it, Fiddleford’s yells causing a pain similar to a migraine. 

“Bill can’t possess me now.” He bit out. 

Fiddleford didn’t look like he’d forgiven him, but he did seem to compose himself. The man strode up to him, and Ford was prepared for a slap to the face. He got a hug. Fiddleford’s spindly arms constricted around him. The shock lasted only a second and Ford returned the embrace.

“Yer an idiot.” Fiddleford muttered, pulling away. 

“I want a hug, too!” Mabel jumped from her chair and threw her arms around Ford’s legs, joined by Dipper. Stan picked up his IV and moved it with him, pulling Ford into a strong hug, roping Fiddleford back into the embrace with one arm. 

“I think we could all lay off the heroics for a while, at least while the kids are here.” Stan said. Ford looked at him quizzically and he explained. “Their tubby time-travel friend said they can stay for a month, then it’s outskies." 

“We love you guys too much to just leave ya hangin.” Mabel chirped.

Ford knelt, hugging the kids close to him. “I love you, kids. Thank you for everything.” 

Mabel giggled and Dipper smiled. They hugged him, chasing away his worries. They’d given him a family again, and if Bill dared to show himself after they left he and Stanley could handle it. 

As children, to teach them the value of family, their mother told Stan and Ford about her own life. She had been born in Romania, to a poor family that already had three other children to feed. The land offered no life and her family followed the wind, begging for money when work did not come. Her mother, dressed in her own mother's patterned skirt and silk scarf, gripped the hands of strangers and read their palms. Her mother's theatrics surrounded kernels of truth, of real visions of a person's life. 

Like her mother she was a real gypsy, closer to the mythic. As a child she had a talent for finding what was lost: a silver coin, a sock, dogs that had run away. The night before the Natzi’s came she cried shrilly for hours, inconsolable. Her family was taken to an internment camp, a place where everything was grey and the cold was bitter. “There was never enough food to eat and we stopped feeling hungry after a while,” his mother had recalled. 

The gypsies who hadn’t starved or been worked to death were hung to save bullets. She watched her father, brothers, and sister die. Before her turn at the gallows came a German soldier stole her from her mother's sun leathered arms and spoke softly to her in German. His voice dipped lower, Romanian sliding off his tongue. “Nu agita. Sigur.” Don’t fuss. Safe. He smuggled her out under the empty darkness of night in a cartful of bodies that shuddered on the blood soaked road to freedom. 

The soldier's brother took her onto a large, smoke breathing ship that sliced into the waves. In America she got a new life, a new family. “Then I met your father, and he gave me you two.” She’d said, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Family is forever and always, boys. No matter what.” 

He had forgotten her wisdom. He remembered now, and he would not let himself forget again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm playing really loosey goosey with Shermie's timeline. We don't have much cannon for him, and I don't think it's possible for the baby we see in a Tale of Two Stan's to be Shermie. The timeline doesn't make sense, there's not enough time for him to have a child, and for that child to have children that are 12 when the show takes place. The math doesn't work. Shermie Pines would have to be an older sibling, but whatever, I'm rolling with it. The bit with Ma Pines, however, works in the time frame. Genocide of the European Roma took place between 1939-1945. If she was nine in 1939, she'd be 30 in 1960s. I just thought it was a cool idea.


	15. A Mother Knows

A six fingered hand, an open mouthed fish, a question mark, a bag of ice, a pine tree, glasses, a llama, a shooting star, a pentagram, and a stitched together heart. Those were the ten symbols of the Zodiac. Ford had seen them before in his dreams, fleeting glimpses of the signs encircled around an ominous drawing of Bill. In some of the dreams he stepped onto the hand symbol and a thrill of energy traveled through him. He looked at the rest of the ideogram and noticed his arms were spread, hands open as if to receive something. 

Later, after copying the cave painting to its last detail and deciphering the primitive language he learned what his dreams meant. The prophecy said that when ten people with the characteristic of the sign joined hands it had the power to defeat Bill. 

Could it really be that easy? Bill had the power of a God, could he be defeated just by standing in a circle and holding hands? All of his brain adamantly said no, it was merely superstition of a tribal people, but staring at the Zodiac now he reconsidered its validity. 

Stanford's pen glided across the paper, jotting names next to symbols. The sweater Mabel donned on the first day he met her had been embroidered with a shooting star, and Dipper’s hat had a pine tree on it. He was obviously the hand, and beyond that he wasn’t sure. 

He was by no means a symbologist, but if there was ever a time to start trying it was now. The glasses could be a scholar, the ice someone cool-headed, the heart could signify someone broken hearted. The question mark might represent someone with an inquisitive nature. The pentagram with an eye in the center… could be someone psychic. Or Pagan. The fish and the llama he could think of nothing for. 

Fingers raked through his unruly hair, his bearable headache transforming into a migraine. The pain was so intense he couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes and he groped at his pocket. His shaking fingers almost failed to grip the smooth plastic but he got the bottle open and swallowed two chalky white tablets. Stan had forced Ford to walk him to his car, and from the trunk, taped to the inside of the spare tire, he retrieved the bottle. He’d shaken it and tossed it to Ford. 

“Vicodin, don’t worry, it’s legit.” 

Ford demanded to know why Stan had vicodin, and had received a less than forthcoming response. The bottle sounded half full, and when Stan offered to take it back Ford held it to his chest protectively. 

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t take them.” 

Stan had laughed. “Relax, alright. I got them illegally, but not to sell. My leg got busted up a few years ago and I needed them like a fish needs water. I can’t afford to have a drug addiction.”

That had been in the morning, and he’d already taken three. Logically he knew they took a half hour to take effect, but the pain seemed to ebb the moment he swallowed them. 

Ford groaned, massaging his scalp. He didn’t want to admit he needed help figuring out the meaning of the last two symbols. He hated to drag his family through anymore of his mess, but they had already proven more apt at making rational decisions. Ford didn’t think being compared to Stan would ever leave him the foolish one. 

It wasn’t Stan who ignored blatant warnings saying not to summon a demon. It wasn’t Stan who blindly trusted a creature from another dimension because of flattery. Stan may have had poorer grades when they were children, but his brother had the street smarts Ford lacked. When weirdos offered them gifts on the pier and Ford stepped forward curiously, Stan yanked him back. 

He was supposed to be the smart one, but had it not been for Stan he would have walked obliviously into danger many times as a child. 

Thinking about his brother made his head throb. His brother, defenseless in another dimension, sick because of him. If they had waited any longer… Stan might not have come home alive. Tears dripped from his eyes and Ford swallowed another pill. 

His chair scraped on the study floor and he gripped his journal in sweaty hands. He stepped out onto the front porch, scanning the tree line and lawn for anything abnormal. There was nothing except a few gnomes rooting through his trash cans and some deer cutting across the yard. The doe’s head whipped around and her inky eyes trained on him. She stared at him intently, her two fawns mirroring her. The mother galloped towards the trees, followed by her young. 

He’d slept a few hours before giving up to work on the Zodiac, and being outside showed him just how early it was. The first quarter moon still hung high in the star flooded sky, its light glinting on the silver drops of dew clinging to blades of grass. Cicadas filled the cool air with their song, their chirps seeming to synchronize with the twinkling of the stars. The world felt serene, at odds with the crippling guilt and pain he felt in his heart and head.

From a tree branch he glimpsed the shine of owl eyes and focused on it just in time to see the bird launch into flight, diving for an unsuspecting rodent. The bird swallowed its prey and took to its perch again, feathers ruffling as it settled. The owl met his gaze straight on, its yellow eyes sending a jolt of fear through Ford.

He hurriedly stepped inside, jiggling the knob twice to make sure he’d locked it. He stood in the front room for a moment longer, lost and jittery, before going upstairs to the attic. Breathing hushed, he cracked the door open. The kid’s hadn’t wanted to let Stan out of their sight, and the man agreed to take one of their beds while they shared the other. 

The three of them were all sleeping peacefully. Mabel hugged Dipper in her sleep and Stan hugged the feathery ostrich stuffed animal they’d gotten for Mabel on one of their outings. Ford had suggested a more traditional teddy-bear, but Stan was insistent Mabel would like the ostrich more. And indeed, she’d squealed when presented with the gift.

Dipper had made a half-hearted joke that she was too old for such toys, the jest dying on his tongue when Ford handed him an equally feathery toy dodo bird. Mabel had been so excited she said she was going to knit them and the stuffed animals matching sweaters. Ford squinted, smile unfurling on his face when he saw the bird under Dipper’s curled arm.

He hesitated as he passed Fiddleford’s door out or respect for the man’s privacy, but anxiety won out in the end. He peeked into the room to find it empty. Alarm instantly spiked within him and he had to physically force himself to stay calm. No light spilled out from under the bathroom door down the hall, and the next logical place to check was the kitchen. Fiddleford woke up thirsty and went to get glass of water, simple. 

That in mind, Ford still took the stairs two at a time. Before he could burst into the kitchen he heard Fiddleford talking softly. He stopped and pressed to the wall, eavesdropping unabashedly. 

“It’s beautiful country, Becky. Friendliest little town, lots of kids in the ‘burbs. Tate would love it…” He paused, listening to his wife. “It’s a little school. Twenty kids or less per class, the staff was all really friendly. I’m sure Gravity Falls could use a civil engineer, I know you’ve been dying to put your degree to use. Tate’s older now, and I can stay at home to work on my computer's.” 

Ford glanced around the corner and saw Fiddleford seated at the table, smiling softly, fingers playing with the phone cord. “I patented that one, it releases next fall.” The man leaned forward, elongating his spine. “Money isn’t a problem, sugar-pop. Do you want to move, that’s all that matters.” He listened to her reply, smile growing into a grin. “No, I haven’t told ‘im yet. But I’ve been looking at houses for sale. Found the prettiest lil’ thing, finished basement and a big, fenced yard.” Fiddleford blushed pink and laughed. “I haven’t thought of everything, but the yard IS big enough for two or three dachshunds. Just puttin’ that out there. Garden in the front yard, sausage dogs in the back, doesn’t that sound great?” 

Ford crept upstairs to his bedroom, leaving Fiddleford to talk with his wife in private. His heart was pounding, happiness making him giddy. He’d been secretly dreading losing his friend, and knowing Fiddleford liked it enough in Gravity Falls to move there was a weight off his shoulders. Knowing the kids had to leave in a month was upsetting enough, the prospect of losing his friend was heartbreaking. 

He went to his room and laid on his bed. After tossing and turning he trudged to the attic, pillow and blanket in tow. The room smelled like sleep and warmth. Moonlight splashed onto the floor through the window, floating dust particles illuminated in the ray of light. The kids breathed softly, comfortable cuddling each other one moment and sleepily pushing the other away the next. Both murmured in their sleep. Mabel hugged her brother, sighing happily and calling him Waddles. Dipper, even in his sleep was endearingly awkward, and confessed his love to someone named Wendy, his lips kissing the air. 

Stan struggled occasionally against the sheets, his soft grunts of distress leaving cracks on Ford’s heart. Was he dreaming of the other side, or of waking in a rust encrusted bathtub, pain flaring in his side and horror dawning on him when he realized his kidney had been carved out of his body? Or maybe he was dreaming of Ford, voice cruel and eyes glowing as he sneered up at him, foot sending him airborne.

The kids had told him in their universe he was the one to go through the portal. His alternate self was understandably jaded by the experience. Ford couldn’t imagine the extent of bitterness and resentment the other Ford felt, but he could identify with the other Stanley. He saw the other side of the looking glass--being left behind, being the one at fault. They had gotten Stanley back because Fiddleford refused to let him go unrescued. A chill prickled over his skin. He had wanted to abandon Stan. He had been ready and willing to leave Stan for dead. 

But Stan wasn’t dead, Ford forced himself to remember. Stan was a few feet away, asleep. Torturing himself did nothing to alter the past. He needed to channel his energy into securing the future. That in mind he was able to calm down. He concentrated on breathing and the sounds of the room. 

Between Stan and the kids it was anything but quiet. Ford didn’t have any trouble falling asleep after that. 

 

Sausage links sizzled on the stove and Fiddleford had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dunking bread into an egg mixture before laying it in the pan.

“You’re an angel.” Stan said around a mouthful of french toast. 

“So I’ve been told.” Fiddleford quipped, plating another batch of toast. “Want another, Stanley?” 

Stan shook his head and swallowed. “I think I’m fat enough.” He patted his stomach. 

“You’re going to get fatter, don’t worry Grunkle Stan. Bodies change!” Mabel chirped, reaching for another piece. 

Stan laughed, “good to know. What about Fordsey?” 

“When you wear your girdle, you two look exactly the same.” 

“What?” Stan looked genuinely horrified and pushed his plate away. “I need to get in shape. Hey! Wipe that grin off your face, poindexter. You try not gaining some weight on a diet of gas station burritos and fast food. And peanut butter.” The man shuddered. “I can never eat peanut butter again.” 

“Why?” Dipper cocked his head, watching Stan over the rim of his orange juice. 

“Peanut butter keeps forever. Almost every day on the road I had a peanut butter sandwich. Not even with jelly.” 

Mabel gasped, “that’s awful!” 

Stan chuckled. “Well, anyway, you’re a great cook, Fidds. You’re going to have to teach Ford and me so we don’t starve without you.” 

Fiddleford preened under the praise and threw Ford a smirk. “You would starve, too. When I got here all your brother had was some rotting food in the fridge, pancake mix, and instant noodles. In college he couldn’t even boil an egg.” 

Ford feigned shame, smile peeking through his facade. 

It was wonderful to have a house full of family. The house had been a skeleton when it was just him, and now it was pulsing with life. The kids were always making noise of some kind, Stan yelled at the TV, and Fiddleford sang to himself when he thought no one was listening. 

Ford tried not to think about the kids leaving and instead cleared his throat, opening his journal. 

“I was looking at the cave painting again, and it says that there is a way to end Bill Cipher.” The happy chatter turned to silence instantly, all eyes on him. “The natives said there was a prophecy, I thought it was just superstition, but,” he pointed to the Zodiac. “I think it might be… destiney. Look at the symbols. A hand, a shooting star,” he pointed to Mabel, and then to Dipper. “And a pine tree.” 

Fiddleford peered at the page over his shoulder. “That’s me! I’ve have to wear corrective lenses for amblyopia since I was a wee one.” 

Stan leaned forward to look and Ford slid the book across the table to him. “Hey, that’s Pa’s fez. I used to wear it when I worked the shop. That’s gotta be me.” 

“But what is the llama supposed to be?” Ford asked miserably. 

“Maybe it’s the Dalai Lama.” Mabel said. “We just need to get a bunch of the townspeople together and we can beat Bill!” 

“While the prophecy said each symbol is not specific to a person, I believe they need to reflect the symbols meaning. Like the ice, someone cool headed. Or the pentagram with an eye in the center, I think that could represent someone with a ‘third eye’, a psychic. But I don’t know anyone like that.” Ford frowned, drumming his fingers together thoughtfully. 

“Yes you do.” Stan said. “Mom.” 

“Mom? She lied to people professionally, Stanley.” 

Stan shook his head. “I called her for your address, and she told me I was going to have kids. That was the day after I found them.” He jerked his head towards Mabel and Dipper. “Remember when we were kids, Ma always knew when we’d been doing something. Who else could it be?”

Ford considered Stan’s words, nodding to himself. “But if it is Ma, that doesn’t help us. She’s on the opposite side of the country.” 

“Phones are a thing, planes are a thing.” Stan said dryly. “You ask her to come here, she’ll do it.” 

“It won’t do any good to have her come all the way here if we don’t have the rest of the Zodiac figured out.” 

Stan shrugged, “still, I bet Ma would love to get a call from ya once in awhile.” 

Ford sputtered. “I call her!” 

“I called her at least every other month, unless I was in prison. But I always made sure to call on Christmas and her birthday.” He leveled Ford with a dry look. “When’s the last time you called her.” 

“I’ve been busy,” Ford snapped. 

“Building a portal for a demon, I know. You’ve got no excuse.” 

“I have to agree with Stanley, Ford. I call my mama every Sunday. I call my wife every other night.” Fiddleford said, sipping from his drink. A second later his cheeks bulged from the drink of water and he grunted wildly, gulping. “Becky grew up on an alpaca farm in Massachusetts! She knitted me a sweater vest from some of the fur. She has to be the llama. And Tater-tot asks questions a mile a minute. He might be the question mark! That just leaves…” his eyes danced over the journal entry. “The heart and the ice.” 

Fiddleford thought. “The prophecy only says the ten people have to join hands, it doesn't say Bill needs to be present for the ritual to be successful. He can’t enter the shack or Ford’s mind, the harm in simply attempting the ritual is minimal.”

Ford’s stomach shrunk. “You don’t know what he’s capable of, I won’t endanger anyone else--”

“Ford, making a deal with him was the ultimate endangerment. This is damage control.” Fiddleford said firmly. “I wouldn’t allow my family to do this if I thought it would put ‘em harm's way. After the twins leave, we lose the chance to do this until their born in our time, and then we’d have to wait for ‘em to be old enough. This will be our only chance for literally decades.” 

Ford’s frown deepened, but he nodded to signal his understanding. “How soon could your wife come up?” 

“Two, three days. What about your mother?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Fiddleford rolled his eyes, “call her and ask. For God’s sake, the universe has handed us a trump card. The kids and I can start lookin’ for the last two people and you boys can call your mother.” 

Ford nodded reluctantly, knowing it was useless to argue with Fiddleford when he used that tone. 

 

After the breakfast dishes were washed Fiddleford and the kids waved goodbye and began the walk to town, searching for the missing pieces to their puzzle. Stanford watched them leave, a lump of anxiety heavy in his stomach. He and Stan stood on the porch until they were out of sight. Ford snuck a glance at Stan to see if he was equally worried for their safety. If he was, it didn’t show. Stan’s arms were crossed and he leaned against the wall, his face lined with exhaustion but not concern. 

“They’re tough.” He said simply, sending Ford an understanding look. “And so are you. Now let’s go call Ma.” 

In his study on his desk sat the phone, waiting like a snake about to strike. Ford fumbled with the drawers for his phone number booklet. Stan scoffed and pushed him out of the way, dialing the number from memory. He held the receiver to his ear, bent at the waist and one elbow on the table. His posture reminded Ford of their mother and he felt a smile pull at his lips. 

Stan’s easygoing expression dropped abruptly and he cleared his throat. 

“Hello, I’m calling for a psychic prediction.” His voice came out deep and gruff, and Ford realized their father must have answered. Stan waited and sweet relief washed over his features. “Ma, it’s Stan. How are you? And the baby? Hey, guess who I’m with.” Stan grinned and punched Ford’s shoulder. “Sixer I told you she’s psychic. Ma, I’m putting Ford on.” 

Stan shoved the phone into his hands and Ford gulped, his throat abnormally dry. “H-hi Ma.” 

“Baby! How are you?” Her voice was raspier than he remembered, and Ford guiltily acknowledged that it had been a long time since he’d called home. 

“Oh, things have been crazy here. Stan’s going to be living with me for a while, to keep me out of trouble. I, uh, hit my head pretty hard a while ago and he’s been a big help.”

“I’m so glad you two are making up!” His mother sounded absolutely delighted. “Do you have a lady in your life yet? Are either of you going to give me grandbabies soon?”

He laughed nervously. “Mom, I have something to tell you. It’s… not… well it’s not going to make a lot of sense, but I need you to listen and know I’m telling you the truth.”

There was a pause, and finally, “okay, sweetie.” 

He could picture her sitting in the window seat that overlooked the salon across the street. She’d have been lounging, her white heel dangling on her toes, but she was sitting up now. Cross legged and focused, her greying hair loose from its bun and spilling over her shoulders. Fine lines creased her skin as her plucked eyebrows furrowed. 

Ford inhaled, eyes closed as he prepared to tell his mother all of his mistakes. “Alright, first, things you couldn’t imagine are possible. Time travel is possible, I’ve seen it. That’s actually the reason Stanley is here. Two children from the year 2012, my great niece and nephew, came back and unintentionally found Stan. He brought them here. I’ve been building an interdimensional portal, the instructions were given to me from a demon I summoned. And… well it gets really convoluted, but there’s an ancient prophecy that can defeat the demon. It’s a Zodiac that consists of ten symbols, Stan, myself, the children and my assistant are all on the Zodiac. There is a symbol of a pentagram with an eye in the center, I believe that is you. I called to ask you to come to Oregon so we can attempt to vanquish the demon I released.”

Silence. Long, deafening silence. He didn’t expect anything else. He knew what he’d told her sounded like a madman's ravings. 

“I had a dream a few years ago,” his mother began shakily, the sudden terror leaking into her tone frightening Ford. “You had been in Oregon for about six years. I dreamt about a yellow triangle with one eye. He was so angry and sad. In my dream he got up in front of everyone and said something, and then he snapped his fingers. Everything was on fire, the world fell apart at its seams… He said, ‘I’m liberating you from your flat minds.’” 

It was Ford’s turn to be shocked into silence, and his mother continued. He could hear the tears glistening in her dark eyes. “Grandma had visions sometimes, heard voices, too. She was terrified of phantoms. When I was very young she was convinced an evil spirit was inside her, waiting to jump into one of us. She used to tell me I had to close my third eye. She said that when I could see the other side, the other side could see me. She closed her eye until she was almost blind. When I was young I could hardly tell reality from fantasy. My mother said it was because I was born with a caul over my face, born lucky and with the second sight. When I came to America I didn’t have visions for years. That was the first vision I’ve had in fifteen years.” 

“That triangle was Bill Cipher.” Ford managed, voice barely above a whisper. “He’s a dream demon from the second dimension. He masqueraded as my muse. Mom, you have to be the pentagram. Can you come to Oregon? We only have four weeks before the kids have to return to their own time.” 

“Stanford, I would come even if you didn’t need help killing a demon. Now tell me the names of my great-great grandchildren.”

“Mabel and Dipper--Stan is Dipper his real name? I kept forgetting to ask you that.” 

“Good question, I don’t know. Let me talk to mom.” 

“Mom, Stan wants to talk to you.” Ford handed the phone to Stan, who eagerly started telling her about the kids. 

“They’re twins, true Pines, too. The boy is sharp as a tack, and his sister has more energy than I did at that age. She’s tough as nails and sweet as sugar. You’re gonna love ‘em. They had me wrapped around their little fingers in one night.”

“I can’t wait to meet them!” She said. “I can be out there in a few days.”

“What are you going to tell dad?” 

“The truth; I’m going to see my son. He’ll want to stay home for the shop anyway and he can watch Shermie. Lord knows I’m not taking that child on an airplane.” 

“I’m glad you’re coming out… I missed you, Ma.” 

“I miss you too, baby. Every day, both of you. I’ll be seeing you real soon.”

“Okay, Ma. Ford, say goodbye.” Stan tossed him the receiver and moved to give him some space. 

“Thank you so much, mom.”

“Try and keep out of trouble until I get there.” He could hear the wink in her voice, and he smiled slightly. “I’ll be there in three, four days at the most.”

Ford thanked her again and hung up, feeling numb but relieved. He heard Stan shuffle closer, and an arm wrapped around his shoulders. 

“We got this, Sixer. You and me, and Ma, and the kids, and Fidds. That Dorito demon won’t know what hit him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nacho-cheese flavored Doritos came out in 1974. The first ever Doritos came out in 1968. I learned that just for Stan's joke. Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter :)  
> 


	16. Picture Perfect

Mabel felt light and optimistic, dancing on her toes a few paces ahead of Dipper and Fiddleford. The boys were wearing identical expressions of concentration, as though they were trying to solve a math problem in their heads. The were undoubtedly trying to identify the best places to search with improvised data, formulating a plan with facts and figures they didn’t have. 

She let them agonize over their unnecessary details. They worked best in their nerdy way; she worked best in her own ‘dumb luck’ way. She had faith they would find what they were looking for. The universe had given them the Zodiac, it would provide the last two people to complete it. 

The sky was marbled with wispy clouds and Mabel inhaled a lungful of sun warmed, honeysuckle perfumed air. There was something else in the air, too, a promise of adventure, of success. It was not a scent or temperature, it was nothing Dipper and Fiddleford could measure on instruments, jotting down the data in neat columns for analysis. It was something purely felt on instinct, a pull in her gut that told her she was on the right track. 

Mabel bounced, excited to be in town. Apart from their first day in Gravity Falls they hadn’t had a chance to see much of the young town. The church appeared to be freshly whitewashed, and the sun glinted off a stained glass window that she didn’t recognize. The trees in front of the high school had yet to be chopped down. Some of the shops were different, as were the residents walking around. 

“Let’s cut through the grass.” She called back, walking through the lawn surrounding the church to get to Main Street. She stopped before the statue of Nathaniel Northwest in the town square. It didn’t have any chunks of stone missing and the streaks of rust coming down from the plaque were not there. It did, however, have a considerable amount of bird droppings covering it. Mabel pretended that her smile did not stem from any harbored ill feelings towards Pacifica. 

She scanned the street, hand moving to shield her eyes from the brightness of the day. They had made it to Main Street and she hadn’t seen anyone who looked especially broken hearted or cool-headed. She supposed it wasn’t likely they’d be able to judge the right person by outward appearance. No one was going to leave their home openly weeping because they’d just had their heart broken. 

Mabel turned to share her revelation with Dipper and Fiddleford, but found they were not right behind her as she’d thought. She turned full circle, skirt swishing around her legs. She must have gone off on her own without their noticing. 

Her mouth tugged into a frown. She wasn’t scared to be alone, she and Dipper had run amok in the same streets many times, but she knew Fiddleford would fret over her disappearance. The girl thought about her predicament for a moment, and decided the best course of action was to keep looking for the people to complete the Zodiac. She would just look for Dipper and Fiddleford at the same time. 

Pleased with her plan Mabel started to walk leisurely along Main, taking her time to examine each building and person. A flash of crimson in her peripherals made her skid to a stop. She inhaled sharply, a greeting to Wendy catching in her throat as she whipped around to face the redhead. Wendy hadn’t been born yet, but the woman was almost an exact copy of the teenager. She had to be related to Wendy. 

The young woman’s gait was loose and long, her arms swinging at her sides as she walked, a case secured by an over the shoulder strap bouncing on her hip. Mabel trailed the woman, keeping enough distance to remain inconspicuous. She’d normally run up and introduce herself, but the woman looked purposeful despite her easy-going stride. She passed the local tavern, a tipsy gang of bikers loitering on the sidewalk catcalling her. The woman’s speed didn’t falter, but Mabel walked past the men a bit faster. 

She followed the woman to the lake, speeding up to walk alongside her. 

“Hi, I’m Mabel Pines.” 

The woman stopped mid-stride, staring at Mabel with almond shaped eyes that were a very familiar shade of forest green. Delicately shaped lips quirked into a bemused smile. 

“‘Sup, Mabel? There a reason you’re trailing me?” Her voice was throaty and Mabel’s grin grew. She stuck out her hand.

“Is there a better way to make friends?” The woman shook her hand, slim shoulders shaking as she laughed. If she was off-put by Mabel’s friendliness her face didn’t betray her. 

“Well, your strategy is working so far. I’m Audrey, Audrey soon-to-be Corduroy.” 

Mabel saw the plain silver band on her finger, and as Audrey’s hand returned to her side she noticed the sheathed hatchet clipped to her belt. If her last name hadn’t given her away, the hatchet and cropped red hair certainly did. 

“You new in town or something?” Audrey asked. 

Mabel nodded, “I’m exploring.”

“Yeah? You a little Magellan?”

“Sure am! Want to explore with me?” 

Audrey shrugged, “why not? Ever been to the Mural?” 

Mabel shook her head. “Never heard of it.” 

“Bangin’. Let’s go.” Audrey scanned the length of the shore and made a beeline for a bobbing row boat tied to the pier. She pulled it in by its tether and undid the knot skillfully. “Hop in, kid.” 

The rocking made Mabel stumble, falling into a seat ungracefully. Audrey leapt into the boat, landing in a crouch and standing with a fluidity that suggested she did this often. She slung the strap off her shoulder and carefully set the case between her feet. She then took the oars and began paddling. 

“You’re marrying Manly Dan, right?” Mabel dipped her fingertips into the lake, palm skimming the water as the boat lurched forward. 

“Manly?” Audrey laughed. “I wouldn’t call him manly. Boyish, or immature. But mostly I call him Danny, you know him?” 

While Mabel had a heart of gold, she also had a tongue of silver. “My uncle knows him! I live up on Gopher Road with him.” 

Green eyes sparkled. “You’re uncles that crazy scientist?” 

Mabel nodded eagerly. “That’s him, he makes some really cool thingamabobs.” 

“Like what?” Audrey’s voice returned to the easy-going monotone that Mabel knew well from Wendy. 

“He made this carpet, and if you rub your socks on it you can switch bodies with anyone!” 

“Oh, is that so?” Audrey asked indulgently. 

“Yep!”

“Maybe I can get some chump to switch bodies with me.” She joked. 

Mabel looked at her curiously. “Why? You’re so pretty, and strong, too, I bet.” Audrey’s freckle dusted cheeks flushed pink.

“Thanks.” Her features showed no change in her emotions, but Mabel could feel a shift within the woman. 

“What? What’s wrong?” 

Audrey chuckled awkwardly. “Nothing, don’t worry about it.” Her voice kept steady, her face hardening ever so slightly. Mabel studied her intently, lips forming a pout, but she didn’t push the subject. 

“So, you in town for the summer or what?” 

“Well we just got here a few weeks ago, and we’re leaving in a month. It sucks, I haven’t even gotten to sightsee yet, I wanted to make a scrapbook.” 

Audrey, who had been making polite conversation, leaned forward with interest. “You a shutterbug?” 

“I love taking pictures!” 

Audrey’s white, straight teeth showed as she grinned. Her shoulders strained as she added extra force to her last few strokes that put the boat into the shallow waters surrounding Scuttlebutt Island. Mabel peered into the murky water and saw minnows diving into gaps between rocks. Audrey rolled her pant legs up over knobby knees and stepped into the water, tying the boat to a lonely wooden post sticking out of the ground. 

“Wanna get wet or do you want a lift?” 

Mabel held up her arms in reply. Audrey plucked her up and set her down on the ground, grabbing her case. She pulled a professional-looking camera from it and slipped on the wrist band attached to it. Audrey rummaged through the many zippered pockets and made a sound of triumph, holding up a yellow, disposable camera. “I’m a bit of a photographer myself.” She tossed the Kodak to Mabel. “That’ll get you started.” 

Mabel beamed. “Thanks!” 

Audrey winked, “and the first thing you can take a picture of is the Mural.” She led Mabel through thickets of pines to a small clearing encircled by trees or steep, flat rock. Every available inch of it was covered with graffiti. In the center was an image that no ammature vandalism encrouched on. It was a picture of Audrey, a bandana tied over her hairless head, posing like Rosie the Riveter. It was captioned, “you can do it!” 

Below the mural were other messages of encouragement and well wishes. 

Mabel examined Audrey again, comprehension coalescing from the clues. She wore tight jeans that fit her loosely, and a long-sleeved, fully buttoned shirt despite the summer heat. Her hair was feathery and short, as if it had just recently grown. 

“You have cancer.” Mabel’s hands slapped over her mouth. 

Audrey shrugged, unfazed. “It’s okay, you can say it. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.” She made a muscle with her arm and smirked. “‘Sides, it’s common knowledge, anyhow. The whole town had a fundraiser to help my folks with the med bills. It’s big bucks to be sick.” 

Mabel found a sudden interest in her shoes, unable to look at Audrey without seeing the mother Wendy lost. 

“Hey, don’t get all mopey on me. Here, take a picture. Sick me with healthy me.” Audrey imitated the painting of herself and Mabel snapped a photo, the woman's playful tone helping her smile. “Okay, wanna do one together?” 

Mabel was at her side in an instant, excitement surging over sadness. Audrey took Mabel’s camera and held out her arm, blindly taking a picture of themselves. The two girls separated and Audrey glanced deeper into the mass of trees surrounding them. 

“I was going to try and get some landscape pictures, but I think we should get you back to town.” 

Mabel wanted to protest, but she knew Audrey was right. Dipper and Fiddleford were probably worried. 

“Okay. I, uh, really liked talking to you. You seem really cool.” The moment the words left her mouth Mabel realized the unintended implication they held. Of course, it made perfect sense. Wendy was the coolest person she knew, a chip off the old ice block. In the twenty minutes she’d talked with Audrey the woman struck her as exceptionally cool-headed. But would she be open minded enough to believe that a demon was hellbent on taking over their world? Mabel could think of one way to test Audrey’s receptiveness. “Hey, have you seen anything… strange in the woods?” 

“Strange how?” Audrey’s eyes narrowed almost unnoticeably. 

“Like… gnomes, fairies?” 

Audrey crouched to her level and leaned close so their foreheads almost touched. “I’ll tell you a secret. There are lots of weird things in this town, most of them are harmless. But some of them aren’t.” She patted her hatchet. “So don’t go off into the woods by yourself, okay?”

Mabel nodded, feeling affirmed, and Audrey smiled. “Good girl. Let’s get back.”

Audrey helped Mabel onto the pier and re-tied the boat. They headed back to town, the younger now quiet. 

“Bring that to the Photo Shack and I’ll develop it.” Audrey said when they reached the water tower. “It was fun hanging with you, I’ll see you later.”

“Okay, thank you! Bye bye!” Mabel waved and Audrey gave her a two fingered salute, spinning on her heel and jogging to her next destination, camera ready to take a photo at a moment's notice. 

Mabel watched her go, sadness welling inside of her. Audrey was Wendy’s mother, and while Wendy never mentioned her Mabel had inferred that Mrs. Corduroy had passed. From a recurrence of cancer, she could now assume. It was one thing to have sympathy for a friends loss, but now Mabel knew the woman. And she knew the fate that awaited her years down the road. Audrey had been exceptionally kind to her. Mabel was a stranger to her, and Audrey gifted her a camera because of a mutual interest. She chose to hang out with her despite their age difference, treated her with a familiarity that wasn’t there. 

She was a good person; and she was hurtling towards a young death Mabel couldn’t warn her about. 

Her former optimism had turned to a low, gummy feeling. Her only consolation was that, in spite of the hardships Wendy had undoubtedly faced, the teenager ultimately grew into a well adjusted person. 

Audrey was one life their trip to the past was not meant to alter. 

She curled into herself and began walking, clutching the camera close to her chest. 

 

Dipper’s pursed lips formed a frown, finger tapping his chin as he thought. The town was not a large one, and it was even smaller years into the past. There weren’t many places to search for something specific, but looking for literally any one of the residents was a daunting task. The boy decided anywhere was a good place to start and tugged on Fiddleford’s rumpled, hawaiian shirt. 

“Yes, Dipper?” He asked distractedly, holding out the town map Ford had insisted he take. Places the man had thought would be good to search were circled. The circled areas included: the cemetery, the hospital, lovers leap--a makeout point for the local youth and not a suicide hotspot as the name suggested--and the church. “Ford is morbid.” Fiddleford muttered, folding the map. “Does he think we’re going to find someone left at the altar?”

“How about there?” 

Fiddleford followed Dipper’s pointed finger to the museum. “Good a place as any,” he agreed. “Mabel, we’re going to the museum… Mabel?” He frantically looked around, seeing no sign of the girl. “Dagnabbit! We lost your sister.” 

Dipper was not as frenzied as the man. “Grunkle Stan let me and Mabel go out alone all the time. She knows how to get home. She’ll be okay.” He didn’t mean to sound unconcerned, but he trusted Mabel to take care of herself alone in Gravity Falls. The town’s residents may have been eccentric, but aside from Gideon they weren’t a threat. “We’ll find her.” He assured. 

Fiddleford took a calming breath and lowered his tense shoulders. “Yer right, she knows how to get home.” He didn’t sound convinced. 

Dipper grabbed his hand and led him to the museum, stiffening when they stepped inside. The last time he’d been here was when they were helping Old Man McGucket find his memories. He snuck a glance at Fiddleford. The man stood tall, not hunch backed and bow legged, his feet in brown loafers instead of wrapped in bangages. Both pupils were pointed in the same direction and there was not a trace of madness in them. He was not the overall wearing town coot who built deranged dinosaurs because his wife left him. 

All the same, Dipper’s grip tightened. 

While they walked through the various exhibits Dipper told Fiddleford about his and Mabel’s adventure uncovering the conspiracy about Gravity Falls’ founder. “That’s it.” Dipper pointed to an abstract painting. “Mabel figured that out by lying upside down on the bench.”

“Amazing.” Fiddleford breathed. “An 8½ president. This town is something else.” 

He turned to Dipper, who was now focused on a hispanic woman sitting on the bench before the painting. She sat with her legs crossed at the ankles, dark hair piled on top of her bowed head in a beehive style. Oval shaped, emerald earrings hung from her ears. 

“Mrs. Ramirez?” The words left Dipper’s mouth before he could think about them. The woman’s head tilted up and sage eyes trained on him. 

“Holla, niño.” 

The difference of some thirty odd years were obvious. She was still built stockily, but age had not added so much plush to her stout frame. Running through her dark hair were streaks of silver, unlike the fully grayed hair he knew. In her lap was an embroidery hoop, a needle grasped in her fingers, not yet misshapen by arthritis. 

“H-hi, I’m Dipper.” 

“Holla, Dipper. You already know me.” It wasn’t an accusation or question, and Dipper didn’t know how to respond. 

“What, are you, uh, stitching there?” 

“Something for my son-in-law.” She held up the wooden hoop and showed him a broken heart, stitched together at the fissure running down the middle. Dipper sucked in a breath, forgetting to release it for a moment too long and frantically smacked Fiddleford’s leg. “He break my daughters heart. He does it again… I break him.” Mrs. Ramirez ground her fist into her open palm, her joking tone not softening the murderous glint in her eyes.

“M-mrs. Ramirez,” Fiddleford stammered, “do you believe in… fate.” 

“Si.” She answered immediately. 

Dipper could practically see the heat of anxiety collecting beneath Fiddleford’s collar and decided to step in. 

“This might sound crazy…” 

Mrs. Ramirez didn’t say anything as Dipper explained their predicament to her. When he finished she nodded slowly, reaching into her purse. She handed Dipper a business card, embossed with the words “June Ramirez, affordable childcare”, followed by contact information. 

“My number. Call me when it’s time to kill the demon.” June gathered her sewing supplies and stuffed them into a tote bag. She glanced at her wristwatch. “My daughter is off work now. I must go.” She shook hands with a stunned Fiddleford and waved to a young woman wearing a tour guide uniform. 

“She… believed us.” Dipper said, astonishment soaking his voice. 

“I wouldn’t have.” Fiddleford said dumbly. “Come on, let’s go find Mabel.” 

They didn’t have to look for long. Mabel was sitting at the feet of the Northwest statue, hugging her knees. Her lips were pressed into a line, her eyebrows furrowed together as she stared blankly at the asphalt. 

“Mabel!” Dipper called, instantly able to see her distress. Brown eyes flicked over to him and Mabel pushed herself to her feet. She brushed out her skirt, stalling. 

Her mouth flapped open and shut silently. Her hands fluttered around her, as if trying to grab words from thin air to explain. She inhaled and forced herself to speak.

“I... found Wendy’s mom. Audrey Corduroy; she’s our cool head.” She toed at the ground and added, “she... has cancer.” 

Mabel almost felt silly for being sad, like she was crying over someone from a history book; long buried and dead. There was nothing that could be done, and that was what hurt the most. Dipper embraced her, patting her back sympathetically as he pulled away. 

“...We found Soos’ abuelita.” He said after a moment of silence. “She embroidered the heart symbol on the Zodiac.” 

Mabel’s sullen expression lightened. “That’s everyone we need.” 

Dipper nodded, taking her hand in his own the way he had done throughout their childhood, a gesture of comfort they would never outgrow. 

Fiddleford watched the children fondly, not knowing the reason Mabel was saddened but glad Dipper could help her. They were truly fantastic kids, and thinking that made his stomach twist. In a matter of weeks they would all have to say goodbye. He already knew he’d cry, he didn’t want to think about Ford and Stan’s reaction to parting ways. 

The man dismissed those thoughts. The time they had together as a family now was a gift, and Fiddleford considered the Pines his family. Be him an honorary Pine, or them honorary McGucket's. A few days ago Stanley had been gone, making their family incomplete. And when the kids were gone they would feel incomplete again. He didn’t think a day would go by that Stan didn’t miss them, but if everything happened the same way, they would be back in the summer of 2012. And if Stan couldn’t wait, he could always visit them. He’d have the chance to visit them in the hospital the day they were born, he’d have the chance to visit them every birthday and Christmas. 

Fiddleford smiled at the children and knelt, giving them both a quick hug. “We’re going to have a full house soon, let’s make Stan drive us to the store and get some groceries.”

Radiant, grinning faces answered him and they made their way home, the kids running ahead of him. Fiddleford chuckled. 

It was fitting that his family would be Stanford’s saving grace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art! I commissioned this picture from https://nataliearrow.deviantart.com/  
> She's a great artist, go check out her stuff, and I'm so happy with this picture. I'm probably going to commission more art from her, so that would be a fun little thing to end each chapter with. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!


	17. Family Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Ford get a long overdue reunion with their mother.

The morning was young and already the sounds of New Jersey traffic floated through the cracked bedroom window. A fan dropped from the ceiling on a short pole, the beaded pull chain swaying as the dusty blades spun, shuddering everytime a truck shifted gears on the nearby highway. While she’d been pregnant the first time their ceiling had been to low for a fan, and after days of constant nagging and one dizzy spell that left her sprawled on the kitchen tile, six months pregnant, Filbrick did what he could to raise the ceiling. 

He silently hated every moment of the two week long project, his wife snidely saying it was a small price to pay as she watched from her rocking chair in the hallway. Afterall, only two weeks of his life were inconvenienced, she on the other hand had to be pregnant for nine months. With twins. Her husband didn’t know the meaning of suffering. And she realized that before giving birth, she hadn’t either. 

Mrs. Pines slid her feet into fluffy slippers and paddled to the window, shutting it softly so she didn’t wake Filbrick. She drew back the curtain a sliver. The skyscraper dotted horizon was just beginning to lighten, the sun not yet risen. She tiptoed into the twins old room. She had claimed it when Ford left for college, making it home for the overflow from her closet. But aside from her additions, it remained largely unchanged. Ford had, to her surprise, left many of Stan’s belongings out in the open. 

After Ford left the bedroom had gone empty for months, door firmly shut, before she gathered the courage to go inside. A chill lingered in the air, laughter and arguments and late night studying hiding in every crevasse, whispers of ghosts. She’d dropped onto the bottom bunk, sitting with her hands clasped, knuckles turning white as she stared at the room her children had shared for seventeen years. 

Ford had emptied the closet and drawers of his clothes, taken any nicknacks of significance and left behind only traces of Stanley. His posters still hung on sky blue walls; sleek cars and exotic landscapes. He always was her free spirit. On the dresser were face down picture frames, and when she’d rightened them she saw they were photos of Stan and Ford. Days on the beach to snapshots of days winning spelling bees or wrestling matches. The pictures went up to their teenage years and abruptly stopped. 

Old trophies, medals, and ribbons decorated shelves, most of them Ford’s. Clustered on the dressers top were sea shells, wave smoothed pebbles, a gulls feather, jade-green sea glass, and a twisted piece of driftwood. Treasures from their childhood. 

The work desk Ford had begged Filbrick for was pushed against the wall and now held her hoarded makeup. Cracked tins of rouge, bullets of lipstick, silver handled brushes, mascara, eye pencils, and frosted glass perfume bottles stored in hat boxes. Also on her makeshift vanity, rebuilt and kept in pristine condition, was a record player. Mrs. Pines grabbed a record pilfered from the pawn shop and gently set the vinyl into place. A sense of calm came over her as The Beatles played, Paul McCartney’s melodic voice flowing off the black ridges of the record with the strums of a guitar and plucks from a string quartet. 

She sang along quietly, combing the knots from her hair and braiding it over her shoulder. She didn’t bother with eyeshadow or lipstick. The thin, tinkling gold bracelets and hoop earrings she once wore religiously now sat in a velvet lined, polished wood box. Her fingertips grazed the smooth surface and tilted the lid back. She picked up her wedding band, yellow gold cut with cheaper metal and tarnished from the years. 

Filbrick had gotten it from their pawn shop when it was shiney and almost new, a piece sold so newlyweds could afford their rent. When she’d gotten married it was a courthouse wedding. There would be no village wide celebration of her union, no sweet bread broken over her head or pine trees left at the gate for good luck. Filbrick shaved that morning with a razor instead of a knife. 

In her culture weddings were an extravagant event, a time to dress up as much as possible. Even in her poor family there was money set aside for the day her elder sister wed. Her wedding was painfully plain, her coiffed hair, painted face, manicured nails and wildflower embroidered blouse the only things to remind her of her heritage. 

Her adoptive parents kept with Romanian tradition by writing them a check. All in all, it was a mediocre start to a mediocre marriage. 

She placed the ring back in her jewelry box and let the lid fall closed. 

The woman skimmed her wire clothes rack, her frequently worn scarlet dress at the front. The color seemed too vibrant, too harsh and too young. It was a dress for a woman at least a decade younger. She flipped through the hanging garments and found a modest sundress, ivory and floral patterned. She paired the dress with flats and took a moment to examine her reflection. She had always been aware of each new wrinkle, gravity and time pulling her skin looser and looser every year after thirty. But in that moment, face naked of makeup and no jewelry cluttering her face or wrists, she felt beautiful. For the first time in years she was going to see her dearly missed sons. 

When he first moved to Oregon Ford had called every Sunday afternoon, talking quickly about the fantastical things he’d discovered. Those calls diminished to every other week, once a month, and finally to a phone call around the holidays. 

Stan had been silent for a year after he got kicked out, then she got a drunken, blubbering call late in the night. They talked for hours. She told him all about life at home, answering every question he had. Stan rarely talked about his own life, and she could assume why. He phoned her on a semi-regular basis after that, and when he missed a call her chest tightened. When the phone finally rang it was like daffodils popping out of the ground through late winter frost. 

“Marisol, the cab is here.” Filbrick’s gruff voice came from the doorway and she nodded, brushing past him. He followed her to the street, neither exchanging goodbyes as she got into the taxi. Filbrick was a man of few words, and she preferred not to muddle the silence with a one sided conversation.

The cabbie navigated narrow streets, merging onto a traffic choked highway to the airport. She had used the money from her psychic hotline to buy the ticket, the only reason Filbrick hadn’t forbade her from going. Shermie was at the age where he was becoming self-sufficient, anyway. The boys could manage to reheat a casserole to feed themselves--she hoped. 

Her fingers curled into the arm rests as the plane took off, her breath trapped in her straining lungs. She heaved quietly, heart pounding until the shaking stabilized. The vertebrae of her spine pressed hard into the seat, her toes curling in her shoes. She hesitantly opened her eyes, keeping her gaze forward, fixed on the balding head of the man in front of her. 

She inhaled through her mouth, filling her lungs to the brim, before blowing the air out slowly. Her nails, trimmed, filed, and painstakingly painted red, cut into the rough fabric covering the armrests. The blue-green veins on her hands stuck out against her skin and she splayed her fingers. 

Marisol counted down from ten and dared herself to look out the window, a queasy delight pooling in her stomach when she saw how small the world was. Spires that punctured the sky from a vantage on the ground were pinpricks, roads carving the city into shapes reminiscent of shattered glass. 

She settled in her seat and closed her eyes, hoping the sleep she lost to nervousness the night before could be reclaimed to help pass the time. 

 

“I can’t wait to meet my great-grandma!” 

Stan jerked so violently he almost fell off of the kitchen chair. He straightened, sending Mabel, who had been sitting quietly before her outburst, a quizzical look. She was abuzz with excitement, jittery in her seat, legs swinging with a force he feared would make her shoes fly from her feet.

“Inside voices,” Fiddleford reminded, unpacking the mountain of groceries they’d bought to feed the very full house they expected to have. 

“Yeesh, kid, have you been drinking more of that juice?” Stan asked. 

“Uh-huh, did you know you’re shaking?” 

He snorted and stood, the effort no longer making him wince. He dug in his pockets and pulled out his keys, tossing them to Mabel. “In the car is a deck of cards, go grab it for your Grunkle Stan.” 

Mabel zipped out of the room, returning triumphantly with the tattered card box. She handed them to Stan and sat down, eyes bearing into him intently as he shuffled the cards. “What can you play?” He asked, tapping the deck. 

“Uno, Go Fish, War…” 

“Today you’re learning Blackjack, and maybe Poker.” 

“Ooh!” Mabel surged up in her seat. “Can you teach me how to count cards?” 

Stan smiled proudly. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, sweetie.” 

For the next hour he taught her all his tricks, and after she beat him in a game of poker--a child should not have been able to manipulate him so well--he decided she was ready for pickpocketing. 

“Pickpocketing is an art,” he said. “Now, the most effective way to get someone's wallet is to push them down and take it, but we call that mugging. Pickpocketing is usually done while they don’t know it. Fidds, I need an assistant. Are you wearing a watch?” 

The man glanced at his wrist. “No.”

Stan shambled into the living room where Dipper and Ford were busying themselves with a game of Dungeons, Dungeons, and more Dungeons. 

“Nerd, I need a wrist watch.” 

Ford’s head shot up and he blinked owlishly, shaking fist slowing. “In my room, top left dresser drawer.” He opened his hand and let his dice roll, he and Dipper diving forward to see the result. They both cried out and high-fived. 

“Probabilitor you’re going down!” Dipper exclaimed. 

Stan watched them for a few moments, glad to see his brother having fun with their nephew. 

He retrieved the watch, battery dead and glass cracked, and threw it at Fiddleford. “This is more of a magic trick than a street technique, but I’ll show you because it’s pretty cool.”

He began his act by talking to Fiddleford, guiding his body and attention until he got the watches’ strap undone in a handshake. “And I believe you had something in your pocket.” He dangled the watch in Mabel’s face, winking. 

“How did you do that?” Fiddleford demanded. Stan laughed and handed Fiddleford his wallet, the man staring down at it in wonderment. 

“Well, since you were my lovely assistant I’ll teach you too.” Stan explained each step, going slow so Mabel had a chance to see it. She clapped, thoroughly entertained. “Now, that trick won’t work well for you, short stuff, but I have one I think you can do. Can you shuffle cards?” 

He spent another hour going over the trick with her, and then deemed her ready for an audience. 

“Ford,” he hollered. “Are you guys done playing your nerd game?” He and Mabel walked into the living room to see their brothers laying flat on the carpet. “Tough game?” Stan asked, amusement coloring his tone. 

“What do you want, Stanley?” Ford sat up, looking tuckered out. Stan smirked. 

“Mabel has a magic trick to show you. Go ahead sweetie.” 

The girl stepped forward, rocking on her heels and brimming with excitement. As Stan saw it, she had a few advantages. Mabel was a natural performer, taking someone's attention and directing it was easy for her. And because Ford had a soft spot for the children anyway, he was happy to indulge her. Stan knew the man didn’t expect her to succeed, and would probably just pretend she’d chosen the right card. How surprised he’d be. 

Ford picked a card and without looking at it Mabel showed it to her audience, pinching its bottom corner just as he’d showed her. She shuffled the deck. 

“Care to cut the deck?” She offered Ford, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. He did, and Mabel told him about different kinds of pickpockets. She absentmindedly shuffled the deck as she spoke. She returned the deck to its box and handed it to her humering uncle. “Okay, put that in a pocket, doesn’t matter which.” 

He chose his front right pocket and Mabel theatrically waved out her hands. “You ready?” 

She didn’t wait for an answer and reached into his pocket, whipping out the card with a flourish. “Was... this your card?” She showed Stan and Dipper, and then Ford. 

He did a double take, shock written clearly on his face. “How did you do that?” 

Mabel giggled as she bowed, “Stan also taught me how to get a watch and a wallet.” 

“I want to learn to!” Dipper said. 

“I’ll teach you!” Mabel grabbed his hand and they ran off, Dipper’s energy renewed and Mabel’s no longer making her tremble. 

Stan chuckled and plopped onto the couch, followed by Ford. His brother was quiet for a moment, and then said, softly, “did you have to pickpockets often?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“Oh.” Ford curled into himself slightly.

“Don’t.” Stan warned. “Don’t keep thinking about my old life. It’s over, understand? I’m here, and I’m fine.” 

Ford sighed. “I know… I just… I failed you.” He blew out a breath and forced a smile. “But you’re right. Here and now is what matters.”

Stan nodded approvingly and reclined, “how’s your head?” 

The other man grimaced. “Not as bad now, but it still hurts. The vicodin helps.” He didn’t say that he was already almost out.

“That’s good.”

“... How did Mabel do that?” 

“You’re the genius, I’m sure you can figure it out.” 

Ford pouted, and the sight took Stanley back. It was the same petulant look Ford got when they were children, his toothpick thin arms crossed and and a weak glare fixed on Stan. Ford had never been able to stay mad at him. 

Stan turned the channel onto a made for TV movie and Ford stayed to watch it with him. Fiddleford and the kids joined them mid-way through, and when the sequel started the kids made popcorn. At some point they all began a fresh game of Dungeons, Dungeons, and more Dungeons. 

Dipper and Mabel told them about their mishap with an infinite sided dice that made the games villains come to life. They hadn’t noticed the time passing until the doorbell rang, the sound jarring and unexpected. Everyone stilled, as if unsure of what to do. 

Stan met Ford’s eyes and scrambled to his feet, Ford following close behind. He threw the front door open, knowing who it was but nonetheless shocked to stillness. His mother did the same, the two of them wordlessly staring at each other. They were both so much older than the other remembered. His mother looked slighter, more frail, and at the same time there was an air of wisdom about her. Crows feet bookend her eyes, as dark and soulful as he remembered. Laugh lines were faint around her mouth, the skin of her neck sagging.

He could imagine how different he looked to her. The last time they’d seen each other, he’d been a mere child at seventeen. His hair had been buzz-cut and he’d had a squish of fat around his middle. He’d grown a mullet since then, gotten taller and fatter. 

“Stanley?” Her voice wavered, her tone questioning, not because she didn’t recognize him but because she wanted to make sure he was real. To know he was not a figment of her imagination come to life. 

“Ma.” He swept her into a tight hug, eyes burning with tears. 

“Stanley!” 

They embraced for a long moment, Ford standing in the doorframe awkwardly. Marisol caught sight of him and released Stan to capture him in a long hug. “I missed my boys.” She murmured over his shoulder, and Ford held her tighter. 

He pulled away a few seconds later and glanced to the living room, Dipper and Mabel peeking out at them. 

“Ma, I’d like you to meet your grandchildren, Mabel and Dipper Pines.” 

Mabel was faster to come out, Dipper a step behind her. She stood in front of the woman, her previous enthusiasm mixed with nervousness. Marisol got down on both knees, smile gracing her fine features. 

“Hi, Mabel, hi Dipper, I’m your great-grandma.” 

Mabel grinned, “it’s nice to meet you, grandma.” 

She and Dipper shook Marisol’s hand, and then went in for a hug. Marisol reluctantly let them go and stood, joints groaning in protest.

“And who is this?” She asked, eyeing Fiddleford. The man smiled and stepped forward. 

“Fiddleford McGucket, pleasure to meet you.” He offered his hand and she shook it. 

“Marisol Pines. Fiddleford McGucket,” she said his name, testing the sound of it. “You’re Ford’s old roommate, the boy from Tennessee?” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Ford told me you were the best engineer in the whole school.” She said, recalling a snippet from one of Ford’s calls home. 

Fiddleford’s face flushed and he laughed. “Well, it’s nice to know I warranted telling the folks.” 

“Ma, you’re sleeping in my room.” Ford cut in, picking up her luggage. She followed him, admiring the house. It was predominantly made of exposed wood, and there was no much in the way of decor, but it was the result of her sons hard work. Ford set her suitcase on the edge of the bed, body half turned towards her, hands moving unsurely. 

He faced her, the compound guilt of breaking her family apart crushing him. His knees buckled under his weight and he sat heavily on the bed, grasping the sides of his face. The mattress dipped as she sat beside him, a delicate hand going to his knee. His body pitched forward, stifled sobs making him quake. 

For years he thought Stanley was the reason their family was broken, and only recently could he admit to himself that he shared the blame. He wasn’t the only person who had suffered. Stanley had gone through so much torment, and their mother lost her sons. Stan had at least extended the effort to keep in touch; Ford had willingly been silent, then and in the aftermath. He could have defended his brother, told Filbrick it was a misunderstanding. Because of him, his silence, Stan believed he was unloved. He ran away with no intent of returning because he thought no one wanted him. 

He blinded himself to his mother's pain simply because her grieving wasn’t visible. She went about her daily duties, eyes dry, and he assumed that she was okay. He didn’t consider that she couldn’t weep, that it would cause upheaval in her already turbulent marriage. He didn’t consider that she was as trapped as he’d felt. What could she have done to protect herself against Filbrick’s wrath, let alone her children? She had a baby to think of, she couldn’t provide for Shermie alone, and if she’d challenged Filbrick she risked being cast out. 

That night he was the only one who stood a chance of making Filbrick see reason, and he threw it away. 

“Ma, I-I’m so sorry.” He had much more to say, to beg forgiveness for, but his whimpering cries made it impossible to speak. 

He felt her stand, and for a heart stopping moment he feared she was leaving him. Arms encased him from the front and she held him close, one hand stroking his hair. When he was a child, she’d put him on her lap and hold him. This, he supposed, was the adult equivalent.

Through his sniveling, gasping breathes he spoke. “I let this happen. I let dad kick Stan out. I let my own brother live on the streets for ten years because of a stupid school. I let you lose a son.” 

She said nothing as he cried himself out. When his crying subsided into sniffles and uneven breathing she sat beside him, arm curling around his shoulders. She gently brushed his tears away. 

“I love you, baby. I always will, no matter what you do. I’m almost certain Stan feels the same.” 

She was right, of course. After all he’d done, Stan still loved him. Unconditional love was a concept he abohred because on its surface it was absurd, but it seemed that unconditional love was what his family gave him. He endangered Stan’s life, his brother forgave him. How many times would he unintentionally abuse that devotion? 

“I… don’t deserve your forgiveness, nor Stanley’s.”

Marisol gave a light chuckle, and Ford was reminded of how unique a woman his mother was. She was stone set in the face of the most terrifying challenges life offered, and she laughed when he poured out his bleeding heart. Had war not ravaged Europe, she’d have been a true gypsy. He had seen the wanderlust in her soul when he was a child, her hands limp in dish water as she stared out the kitchen window. Like a caged bird who had never tasted the freedom of flight. 

She was quiet, thoughtful, and he imagined more of the life that may have been. Traveling in wagons, sleeping beneath the open sky when the nights were warm. In the summer her family might have been hired on to pick fruit, moving on when the winds changed. He could picture it, her skin darkened from the sun and her hair spilling over her shoulders in waves. He imagined her peering into a crystal ball, reading tarot cards and casting spells she learnt from elder gypsy travelers. 

But she was not rootless. Her wandering spirit was broken, her wings clipped, and she plunged her roots into the wrong soil. New Jersey soil. She passed the wanderlust on to her sons, the desire turning into a festering need. Stan was forced into the nomadic lifestyle, but he adapted, and had life not been so cruel he might have thrived. 

Ford left home and had hardly looked back. Not even to see if his mother was alright, trapped in her home by invisible bars erected by marriage and motherhood. 

Marisol’s voice interrupted his fantasies.

“You made mistakes. Your brother did, too. I’ve made many. We’re not born to live perfect lives.” She ran a soothing hand along his back. “The only person you need forgiveness from is yourself. And it’s okay if you aren’t ready to give yourself that forgiveness. Take your time, be patient with yourself.” 

His mother, strong as a mule and as wise as a philosopher. 

Ford smiled weakly. “Thanks, mom.” 

She squeezed him. “I’m so proud of you, Stanford. Mistakes and all.” 

Ford then realized Stan got his heart from their mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't go on calling Ma Pines 'Ma Pines' or 'Mrs. Pines.' Marisol is a Spanish name, shortened from María de la Soledad,  
> which means Mary of [the] Solitude. (Which I thought was fitting for her as a character.) I combed through Romanian name lists for hours but couldn't find anything that struck me like Marisol. I haven't really read any stories with Ma Pines as a main character, so I don't know any other fan given names, but I hope Marisol isn't too weird for you guys.   
> Next chapter is already mostly written, it just needs editing. It should hopefully be up soon. Love you guys!


	18. Full House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The McGucket clan arrives.

Stan woke up to a fragrance he hadn’t smelled since he lived at home. His mother's coffee. For the briefest moment he felt like he was twelve years old again, waking up for school to the smell of coffee wafting through the house. 

He sat up, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. Squinting through the early morning haze that blurred his vision he saw Ford had chosen the attic floor over his couch. The reason as to why went unspoken, but Stanley understood it. Ford wanted to be close to his family, the desire to keep vigilant something Stan too felt. 

The kids had been through Hell, and like Stan Ford had become fiercely protective of them. The splotchy purple-blue bruising on Mabel’s throat from Bill strangling her, something he hadn’t learned until questioning Ford about the bruising, had faded into yellow hues. When the girl wore her turtlenecks it was almost unnoticeable. Dipper and she had both gotten scraped up, but those injuries had healed without even leaving the reminder of scars. While the physical ailments were healed, he still worried about their mental health. 

The children were of a hearty stock, that much was clear. His being gone was what caused them the most trauma, and once he was home the weight on them seemed to be instantly lifted. He supposed their adventures in their own time had built up a tolerance to the strange and emotionally jarring. The only change in their demeanor was that they were a new level of clingy, and the same could be said for his brother. 

Ford had left the wreckage worse off than the children. He stumbled out, singed and limping, broken. Stan could see how the man didn’t trust himself anymore. It was worse for those first few days. He was getting better, but Stan still saw the gleam of uncertainty in Ford’s eyes. The thoughts of ‘what have I done?’ and ‘how did I allow this to happen?’ were palpable. Thankfully as the days passed and a sense of normalcy returned Ford’s taut nerves eased. 

Stan navigated around his brother sprawled form. He understood, too, that Ford wanted to be close to him as the children did. It was reminiscent to their youth, the space separating them scant feet between bunks. 

He scooped Dipper into his arms, the still sleeping boy grumbling, and set him on the other bed. Stan covered him with the blanket and slipped out of the room. 

The smell of coffee was even stronger in the kitchen, where his mother was sitting at the table. Waiting on the countertop was a large ceramic bowl, the silver handle of a whisk resting on its rim. Sputtering and hissing steam was the coffee maker, black droplets dripping into the pot. Stan grabbed two mugs, drumming his fingers as the last of the liquid drained.

He filled the cups and placed one in front of his mother, sitting beside her. He reached for the cream and took pleasure in watching the white ripple in the dark coffee. When he offered Marisol the carton she shook her head, sipping her coffee black. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Stan swirled his cup and stood, refilling it. He sat back down, both hands holding the mug, feeling its heat. He glanced at his mother. She looked calm, content. She hadn’t dressed yet and wore a pink nightgown, the color faded and the lace collar frayed. Long sleeves were pushed up to her elbows and her hair was undone, limp when left out of its braid or bun. Her posture was similar to his, shoulders hunched and head bowed, hands wrapped around her cup in a way that was almost reverent. It sparked a memory. 

Stan laughed under his breath and twisted in his seat, facing her. 

“This one time, when Ford and I were kids you and Pa were out for the evening. So we made coffee.” He couldn’t contain his smile. “You wouldn’t let us drink it, so we were really excited. Ford added so much coffee it was thick, we had to water it down with milk . We brewed cinnamon and brown sugar into it, and egg shells! Ford said he heard it was good, so we made scrambled eggs to go with our coffee. I’m surprised we didn’t burn the house down.” 

Marisol’s laugh was like cathedral bells, reverberating and beautiful. He couldn’t remember her laughing like that in his childhood, and it was refreshing to hear now. They settled back into a comfortable silence. Stan kept his body angled towards her while she faced forward, elbows on the table. The new position allowed him to more openly stare at her. She sighed and straightened, spine cracking. 

“Omelette?” she asked. 

His mouth almost began watering. His mother's cooking was something he had forgone for a decade, and he’d missed it terribly. 

“You read my mind.” 

She stood, smiling coyly, and said, “it’s a gift.” 

 

Sun streamed in through the curtains, a pesky ray landing on Fiddleford’s face. The man groaned and shifted away from the light, using his blanket as a shield. He almost drifted back to sleep when he remembered something. Bolting out of bed, he began throwing on his clothes. He was still pushing one leg through his beige slacks as he stumbled into the hallway. 

Fiddleford burst into the kitchen, fingers buttoning his shirt haphazardly. Stan had frozen when he entered, a fork halfway to his mouth. The man looked him over and coughed a laugh. 

“You missed a button, Fidds.” 

Fiddleford blushed and quickly redid his buttons, his fingers trembling with barely contained excitement. “Becky and Tate get here today.” He explained, beaming. 

Stan smiled around a mouthful of food and turned to his mother. “His wife and kid are in Ford’s calendar thingy.” 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Marisol slapped his chest good-naturedly. “There’s coffee and omelettes, dear.” 

Fiddleford followed the heavenly aroma of coffee to the counter. He usually stuck to Earl Grey steeped in cream because Ford was atrocious at making coffee, but whoever had brewed this knew what they were doing. He could smell the sweetness as he poured it. 

His spoon clinked as he stirred in a sugar cube and a liberal splash of cream. He melted as he took a drink.

“This is delicious.” He said, taking another long sip. 

“Thank you,” Marisol smiled. “An old family recipe.” 

She rose slowly and topped off her own cup. “Walk with me, dear?” She was looking at him and Fiddleford blinked, glancing to Stanley. 

“M-me?” 

“If you don’t mind.” She winked at him, and his initial confusion lessened. 

“Not at all.” His accent bled through heavily and he jokingly offered his arm. She looped her arm through his and smirked playfully at Stanley. 

“Don’t try anything funny, nerd.” He mock warned. 

Before Fiddleford could retort Marisol was leading him out of the room. She opened the front door and shut it behind them quietly, leaning on it as her hand disappeared into her nightgown pocket. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, the stick dangling from her teeth as she lit it. 

“Cigarette?” 

“No thanks, not a smoker.” Marisol cracked an amused smile.

“I thought not.” She took an impressively long drag, blowing the smoke away from them. She sat down on the front step, her knees far apart and her bare feet pointing inwards, toes curling into the dirt. The woman took another drag and exhaled the smoke through her nose like a dragon. She flicked away the ashes, looking at him through the screen of her hair. “I wanted to ask you about Ford.” The words tumbled from her mouth, like she was ashamed to say them aloud.

Fiddleford sat beside her. “Sure as shoot he kept secrets from me, but fire away.” 

Her mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a scoff, her shoulders moving as she laughed to herself. 

“He’s not telling me something. He’s never talked to me, he always told Stanley everything…” Her chin quivered and her hand clamped down over her mouth, tears pricking at her eyes. She breathed in through clenched teeth and continued. “I can see somethin’ is ripping him apart. I thought my little Stanley would be the one…” She trailed off, staring into the forest as she struggled to find the right word. “To be… more… hurt. But he could never hide his feelings, and that hasn’t changed. He’s my open book. Ford… keeps everything inside.”

She looked at him, the desperation of a mother trying to help her child painting her features. Fiddleford couldn’t bare to hold her gaze and focused on his hands, thumb idly rubbing his wedding band. 

Finally he said, “I don’t know what Ford told you, but… something happened to Stanley. Something directly because of Ford’s actions. He built an interdimensional portal, he told you that?” She nodded. “Well, did he tell you he activated it?” 

Her thin eyebrows shot up, the whites of her eyes making him notice how dark and sparse her lashes were. “Bill, his so called muse, possessed him. Things got out of hand real quick and… Bill pushed Stanley into the portal.” Marisol’s hands flew to her chest, crushing her cigarette. “Stan was in there for little under a day in our time, but he got gravely sick while on the other side. Ford was able to treat him, and well, you’re seen ‘im. He’s on the mend, you can hardly tell he was sick. But... Ford’s never been the forgiving type, ‘as he? I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive himself for what he did.” 

Marisol took a few minutes to process what he’d told her and nodded to herself. 

“Thank you, Fiddleford.” She lit another cigarette, squinting into the trees, smoke floating upwards from the burning tip in ribbons. He too looked at the trees, but he knew he wasn’t seeing the same thing she was. He saw only the forest he’d seen a hundred times before, the woodlands natural beauty that threatened to swallow them whole. They were like buildings in California, everywhere, all encompassing. But instead of emitting heat and pollution they soaked in the carbon and breathed out oxygen. The vast amount of forest had been unfamiliar at first, but now he couldn’t imagine life without them. Even Tennessee hadn’t had so much forest. 

Tate would love it. The boy loved playing pretend. One moment he could be a scuba diver charting the ocean floor, another he could be an intrepid explorer discovering new species in the rainforest. His imagination was boundless, and Gravity Falls was the perfect place for someone like that. 

Fiddleford had already drawn up blueprints for a treehouse, and he was sure he could convince Stanley to help him build it if they bought the house he’d been looking at. Becky would no doubt love the town, they had talked about leaving California more than once. The thing he worried most about was Bill. He had put on a brave face for Ford, but he had no idea if the Zodiac ritual would work; or if it would be safe. 

He did know that ignoring the problem and hoping it would resolve itself wasn’t an option. Closing the door to a messy room didn’t make the mess disappear; it merely made it less noticeable. Which was why he couldn’t bring himself to truly trust Stanford’s judgment anymore. When he first came to work with Ford, the man had let his refrigerator fall into a dispicable state. Its insides were streaked with green mold and food had been left to rot. Ford sheepishly said they could simply buy a new one. He closed the fridge door and allowed himself to forget it was a problem. 

They couldn’t buy a new earth, and they couldn’t let Bill destroy the one they had. 

“If all goes right as rain, my wife and son might move up here permanently.” He said absentmindedly. His fingers tangled together, a nervous habit he’d never outgrown. “I… really do care ‘bout Stanford.”

Marisol smiled, but it looked bitter-sweet. “I’m glad he has a friend like you.” She snubbed out her cigarette on the porch step and stood. She turned to go inside and threw a glance over her shoulder. 

“If I had to guess, I’d say they aren’t more than an hour away.” 

 

Marisol was right. Fiddleford ate breakfast on the porch, watching the road for the clouds of dust that got kicked up everytime a car chugged its way to the house. After forty-five minutes a familiar, striking car drove up the road, sending his heart into his throat. The Ford Mustang had its top down, and his wife waved at him, honking twice. She had barely parked the car when Tate jumped out of the back seat, running into Fiddleford’s waiting arms. 

As he hugged his son the strength left his legs. He sat heavily on the porch steps, holding Tate tightly. 

“Daddy! I had pancakes shaped like a mouse!” 

“That’s great, Tater-tot. Daddy missed you.” 

“And I missed you.” Becky sauntered to the porch, car keys hanging from one finger. The woman sat flush beside him, her perfume washing over him. 

“Becky,” he spared an arm to pull her into a hug. “How’s my best gal?” Lightening fast he leaned in to kiss her on the lips. Her arm snaked around his shoulders and held him in place. He felt her smile into the kiss and she let him go. 

“Much better now, puddin-pop.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “You were right, it’s beautiful out here.”

Fiddleford’s hand found hers and squeezed it. “There’s coffee inside.” 

Becky hummed, “Ford didn’t make it, did he?”

“No,” he laughed. “His mother, it’s real good. It’s not my dad’s Kentucky Coffee, but it’s good.” 

“Then I need a cup!” Becky stood. “And to use the bathroom, if I could.” 

“In that order?” Fiddleford grinned impishly and she snorted. 

“Preferably vice versa.”

He put Tate on his shoulders and opened the door for his wife. They made it two steps inside before being ambushed. 

“Scrapbook opportunity!” Mabel shouted, snapping a photo of them. She lowered the camera. “Hi, Mabel Pines.” 

Stanford, bleary eyed and wearing his bathrobe, came up behind Mabel from the kitchen. 

“What’s all the--Rebecca!” The man quickly tried to make himself look presentable. 

“Ford, it’s nice to see you.” She held out her hand and withdrew it when he reached for it. “Family gets hugs,” she reminded him. Ford obliged, not bothering to pretend he was put out. “Well, the college gang's all here.” Becky joked. “What now?” 

“I trust Fiddleford told you everything--”

“He always does.” She cut in, eyebrow arching and arms crossing in a way that made Fiddleford weak in the knees and Ford hot in the face with nervousness.

“Yes, well, we’ve arranged to have the last two people arrive later in the day. For now, there’s breakfast and coffee.” 

“Mommy has to use the potty!” Tate said helpfully. 

Ford’s cheeks turned red. “Of course, there’s a bathroom at the top of the stairs.” He pointed her in the right direction, hunching down into his turtle neck in an attempt to hide the blush. 

“Smile for the camera!” Mabel said the words like they were a battle-cry, leaping into action. The two men looked at her just as she took the picture. She laughed maniacally. “I can’t wait to get these developed.” 

The corner of Ford’s mouth tugged down thoughtfully. He then rushed to his room with enough zeal that Fiddleford and Mabel followed, joined by the rest of the family from the kitchen. The man had thrown the door to his walk in closet, revealing an amature dark room. He proudly held up a dusty Leicas camera. 

“Wow, Grunkle Ford. You really like photography.” Dipper said, craning his neck to look around the room. 

“I didn’t really have the knack for it in field work, so much running and what not. That’s why I sketch everything, but for family photographs I think this will work just fine.” He searched the desk he’d crammed into the closet and held up a small box that rattled. “And I have abundant film.” 

“Photo shoot!” Mabel cried. 

And that’s what they did. 

Snapshots of the kids hanging off of Stanley’s arms and Mabel braiding his hair. Pictures of Fiddleford and his family, of Stanford and Dipper laughing. Marisol with her arms slung around the shoulders of her boys, all of them grinning. In one Stan had Ford in a headlock, knuckles rubbing into his hair. Fiddleford ended up in Stan’s arms bridal style, Becky in Ford’s arms the same way. All of their faces were flushed and glowing from laughing. They filled roll after roll of film. Making a lifetime of memories to make up for the fact they only had days left together. 

The hours flew by, and eventually the doorbell rang, breaking the spell of carefree joy that had befell them. 

Ford and Mabel answered the door for Audrey. The red head jerked her head in greeting, stumbling back a step as Mabel tackled her in a hug. 

“Mabel, you said you needed my help killing a demon?” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “What’s that code for?”

“No code, Mrs. Corduroy. We quite literally need your assistance in killing a demon.” Ford said, eerily calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it ^.^


	19. Cruel Irony

Gravity Falls had been her home all her life. It was a small tourist trap town, built impractically high in the Oregon mountains and out of the way of any place worth visiting. It was the sort of place one stumbled upon and never quite found their way back out of, like a grease trap. Everyone who lived there had always lived there.

The people who did live there--and in her mind always had--were people who lined their homes with picket fences and let ivy crawl up the wooden stakes. Kids zoomed along the street on bikes and roller skates, their heads without helmets and their knees without padding. If they lost control and hit the pavement, they’d earn battle scars that they would later brag about, retelling the story grander each time. Years later, when she’d grown into a parent herself, she would not allow her children the same freedoms she grew up with. 

At the tender age of six she had already earned herself numerous scars from a rollerblading accident that sent her face first into gravel. The pack of neighborhood boys she ran with had scattered, unwilling to offer help for fear of repercussions. Just because they knew Audrey was as tough as any one of them--likely tougher, though none of them would admit it--her parents and theirs would not be so understanding. One red headed boy, his face blotted by freckles in the summer months, the one people often mistook for her brother, stayed and helped her get home. 

Over the next two years they became partners in crime, their adventures bringing them both many more battle scars. 

And at the age of eight, already fearless, Audrey ventured into the forest armed with a serrated kitchen knife to find the creatures that rooted through her families garbage cans every morning but were assuredly not raccoons. She found tiny, bumbling men wearing little boots. One of the little men walked up to her, smiled, and said she was pretty enough to be a gnome queen. He then tipped his cone shaped hat and scurried off into the woods. 

The farther she dared, past brier bushes, swaths of stinging nettle, thickets of hemlock and red alder that tore into her skin and hair, the more strangeness she found. But her parents merely laughed at her stories. Tall-tales, they’d call them, and told her not to go too deep into the woods. There were dangers in the woods: bear traps, cougars, snakes lurking under dead leaves and rivers that ran rapid fast when the winter snow melted. They didn’t realize that wasn’t even the tip of the iceberg to the hazards hiding in the forest. 

For all the fantastical things that existed just beyond plain sight, when evening turned the sky lavender-blue and rose-pink and neighbors wandered out to gossip over their short fences, they talked about boring things. About the cashiers skirt cut flirtatiously low or the teacher who was alleged to be caught smoking in his classroom before school began. As a child she sat on the porch steps, fingers sticky from a popsicle, straining to hear her mother clucking with the other culdesac hens or her father talking to the men about the weak ankled democrat running for office. Over the years, as she grew up and became privileged to listen in on the conversations, she became disinterested. 

What use did she have for the half-truths about people's personal lives? She didn’t want to talk about anyone, nor did she want to be talked about. For a long time, the hushed whispers of gossip were about her--and she knew it. They were not rumors, spread like a disease, but rather the talk of her disease. People who had never spoken to her knew her name, pitied her and her family. Because a sick child was as burdening as it was tragic. 

The static changed into something more ear catching when he moved to town. A crazed scientist who holed up in a house away from the town, running amuck through the woods. That’s what the neighbors said. She hadn’t believed their claims, after all, anyone with a degree would seem like a witch-doctor to the townsfolk, but Audrey had begun to rethink her stance on that. 

In the dead of night, lights shined from his house, and they’d never had so many earthquakes until this man moved in. Mrs. Cutebiker said she was walking past his house one night when a blackout darkened the town, but blinding beams of light escaped from his house. Audrey heard that story second hand from her mother and wasn’t quick to dismiss it. But surely he was just eccentric, a college boy eager to change the world with his inventions. Although a mad scientist would fit into their town perfectly. 

Time passed, people's interests moved on, and the secluded scientist became old news. She hadn’t given him another thought until she met his niece, a vibrant girl who liked scrapbooking. The scientist--Stanford?--began to seem almost human like. He was no longer just a name attached to a recluse who emerged once a month to forage at the grocery store; he was a person. A man with a brother, a niece.

Audrey gave the girl one of her disposable cameras and didn’t dwell on the encounter. So she was surprised when she answered the phone at work and a child's voice bubbled through. Mabel spoke quickly, and told her to come as soon as she could, that they needed help killing a demon. The girl hung up before Audrey could question her, and she was left holding the phone dumbly. 

Mabel hadn’t sounded worried, or in danger, just hurried. Audrey debated with herself for a few minutes and decided to close the Photo Shack an hour early. An offence she knew her boss--a perverted but harmless elderly man-- wouldn’t fire her for, and took off for the house that incurred so much curiosity in Gravity Falls residents. 

Dan and his father had been contracted to build the shack, and her betrothed was less of a gossip than she was. The only tidbit Dan offered was that the man was friendlier than the local chatter suggested, something lost on most people because of his social awkwardness. He also insisted on having a basement twice as large as a normal home. Audrey had asked, partly joking, if he thought that was were the man kept his victims. Dan had snorted, shaken his head, and said that if Ford was a serial killer the town would have noticed an influx of missing persons. 

As she jogged up the winding dirt road, she kept that in mind. Whoever Ford was, the odds of him not being a serial killer were in her favor. Still, the weight of her hatchet on her right hip was a comfort. 

She knocked and jolted when Mabel burst through the door, capturing her in a hug. 

“Mabel, you said you needed my help killing a demon. What’s that code for?” 

“No code, Mrs. Corduroy. We quite literally need your assistance in killing a demon.” A man said from the doorway, stern face and serious tone not implying any hint of jest. 

She realized in an instant that this was the man surrounded by speculation. He wore a burnt orange colored sweater vest over a long sleeved work shirt. Thick, black framed glasses concealed his eyes, but the resemblance between he and Mabel was unmistakable. A twinge of uncertainty curled in her gut and her hand twitched instinctively for her hatchet. 

He must have caught the slight movement and the man tried to calm her, a smile warming his features. 

“Excuse my candor,” he held out his hand, and she stared at it a moment too long trying to figure out what was off about the appendage. He splayed his fingers and wiggled a sixth digit. “Polydactylism,” he explained. “It makes glove shopping unnecessarily tedious.” 

It was a statement he’d rehearsed, said many times to strangers. 

“Mittens?” Audrey blurted thoughtlessly, and he laughed. 

“A fine idea.”

That too sounded rehearsed, but she felt like she’d passed some kind of test, and her unease turned to self-satisfaction. 

Stanford launched into a summarized explanation. She listened, silent, staring at him with an unreadable expression. He finished and looked at her expectantly. She leaned against the doorways frame, arms crossed and lips pursed. Her eyes closed, her brows pinching together as she sighed.

“You’re not some kind of cult, are you? Like, you’re not going to lure me into the basement and murder me, are you?” 

Ford sputtered. “Absolutely not! Although the ceremony will be taking place in the basement… but I can assure you we intend you no harm.” 

The fact that there was the possibility of unintended harm was omitted. 

“Alright. I’ll stand in your crop circle or whatever.” 

Ford let out the breath he’d been holding. “Excellent. Mrs. Ramirez should be here soon and then we can begin.”

“I am here.” 

Ford jumped and reared back, letting out a squeak. Audrey looked behind her to see a woman standing on the porch. She looked familiar, and Audrey knew she’d seen her around town. In Gravity Falls everyone knew everybody, but she’d never personally talked to this woman. 

“I am June Ramirez,” the woman introduced herself, as if reading Audrey’s mind. 

“Audrey. I guess we’re both in a prophecy or some such.” 

June nodded, as if that was not news to her. She looked past Audrey to Ford. 

“You are the man who made this mess?” 

He nodded reluctantly, hands slipping into his slack pockets. “Yes, ma’am. I’m afraid it’s my fault, all of it.” 

June came to a stop directly in front of him, and although she was two heads shorter than him the woman had an aura of command. 

“I do not like cleaning up after men.” She said evenly. 

Ford shrunk into himself, turning into the timid child his brother had needed to protect from schoolyard bullies. “I... apologize, and I thank you for coming to our aid. I made this predicament alone, but I cannot fix it as such.” He hoped that no one could tell that hurt him to say.

She regarded him cooly, her eyes narrowed. June blew air out of her nose and stepped back. 

“A man who admits his faults is rare, even rarer is one that tries to fix them.” She walked past him and added, “be the second, hombre tonto.”

Audrey followed June, leaving Ford to shake himself out of his stupor. He ran after them to the kitchen, where everyone had congregated. 

“If I could have everyone's attention,” he waited for the chatter to end, frown pulling at his mouth when he was largely ignored. 

The sound of a spoon hitting a mugs edge rang out and everyone quieted. Stan looked around to make sure everyone was listening and turned to Ford. 

“Go ahead, Sixer.” 

“Thank you Stanley. If you could all follow me downstairs I’ll explain what we’re doing.” 

Downstairs, spray painted into the ground, was the Zodiac. Ford continued. “‘Years ago I found these symbols in a cave, the native people of Gravity Falls prophesied these symbols could create a force strong enough to vanquish Bill.’ The symbols correspond to each one of you, either to a particular attribute or literal symbol. Dipper, the pine tree, Mabel, the shooting star.” The kids, Stan, Marisol, the McGucket's, and June found their places. 

Audrey looked down at the bag of ice, unsure. 

“Man, what happens when we do this thing?” She asked, looking at Ford. He met her eyes. 

“I’m going to be honest; I have no idea.” 

Audrey snorted, “well I feel confident about this.” 

“I can’t tell you what’s going to happen, but I can tell you if we don’t stop Bill now we won’t have the chance again for decades. I can’t guarantee he won’t find another way to enter our world and wreak havoc. Please, Mrs. Corduroy,” he tentatively put a hand on her shoulder. “We--I--need your help. And,” his voice lowered. “I’m scared, terrified, really. But if Bill isn’t stopped now he’ll have time to strengthen his forces. Please, help us.” 

Audrey leaned away from him, head turning defiantly to one side. She didn’t know this man, she didn’t owe him anything. Her only connection to him was Mabel, whom she’d only met once and had nonetheless came when she called. She had no obligation to follow through with her agreement to help. 

Her eyes flicked to him. Since she was a child her biggest flaw was her reckless abandon, her headstrong tendency to charge into danger. It was a trait that age and knowledge tempered. Harm did befall people, children got sick and died. People killed other people. If one went looking for danger they were sure to find it. It was a miracle, she realized just in that moment, that her excursions into the forests hadn’t killed her already. 

“I… I don’t know, man. This is… this is crazy.” And it was. Any other reckless or dangerous thing she’d ever done wasn’t comparable to what Ford was asking of her. 

Mabel, perhaps sensing her impending decision to leave, walked over to Audrey and took her hand in hers, beckoning her closer with a hooked finger. Audrey knelt and Mabel stood on her tiptoes, hand shielding her moving lips as she whispered to the woman for a long moment. Green eyes widened and her lower lip trembled. 

She stayed crouched, breathing slowly, processing what Mabel had told her. She finally stood and swallowed, nodding without looking at anyone. 

“Alright. Okay, let’s do this.” She stepped onto her spot with false bravado, determined to fulfill her part if it was meant to be. 

Mabel returned to her space and Ford walked to his. He looked down at the Zodiac he had seen in his dreams and on the lanter lit cave wall, a ring of symbols around the drawing of Bill. That giant eye that had looked at him many times, crinkled in delight, seemed to stare straight at him, bearing into his soul. Judging him, scorning him. 

Ford took a deep breath, although it did nothing to disperse the queasiness swirling in his stomach, and took his place. Stan smiled at him encouragingly, and that somehow did make him feel better. Just as when they were children, he could draw strength from Stanley when he was weak. 

“Everyone, hold hands. And do not let go, no matter what, until I say.” 

He grasped Stan’s hand tightly, and one by one everyone else joined hands. He held his breath and for a tense moment nothing happened, and then energy tingled over their goosebump puckered skin. The hairs on the back of Ford’s neck stood on end, and a glance around the room told him that everyone else was similarly affected. 

The air suddenly felt thin enough to get drunk off of and the room tilted. Energy coalesced into the inner circle around the picture of Bill. It soared skywards, creating a tangible shaft that shimmered blue. The spray painted lines that Bill was comprised of glowed, and from them the demon rose. 

Bill twirled his cane, a smug expression on his face despite his closed eye. 

“Well well well, look who it is.” The demon’s eye seemed to grin, his arrogant expression shifting into one of alarm when he took in his surroundings. “What is this?” He boomed, turning an angry red. 

“You have no place in our dimension, Bill. And I’m going to ensure you never trick anyone again.” Ford’s voice came out more steady than he’d thought it would, and he glared down at the dream demon. Bill had always held power over him, manipulated his emotions and cut him down without his noticing, and now that the tables were turned Bill looked pitifully small. 

“You don’t know what you’re doing!” The demons shriek bounced off the basement walls and he stretched tall, unable to leave the Zodiacs confines. “You need me! You’re no genius, you’re a fool! You’re nothing without me!” 

Stanford’s glare hardened, and Stan’s hand in his gave him the courage he had been lacking for too long. 

“You’re the one who needs me Bill.” His resolve was unshakable and Bill could see it. 

Panicking, the demon looked to Stanley. “You! I could give you money, power, infinite riches. He abandoned you, ruined your life, just let go of his hand!” 

Stan’s eyes tapered, his mouth twisting around a snarl. “You messed with my family, and there’s nothing more valuable than them.” He smirked down at Bill. “Goodbye, and good riddance, demon.” 

Bill spun, hysterical. The energy surrounding him burned, slithering into his being and stretching his molecules apart. 

“Pine Tree, Shooting Star, you’re going to let them kill me? I can change, I can give you anything you want, don’t let them do this!” 

He looked pleadingly at Mabel and was met with her tongue sticking out at him. “You brats, I’ll kill you! I’ll tear you to shreds and I’ll make you watch, Sixer. I’ll kill everyone you ever loved.” His voice was low, coarse with rage. His body turned black, and his scarlet eye bulged. He waved his hand uselessly, trying to summon the power he’d never been without, and when they failed he clawed at the walls. His scream was high pitched and tinny as he melted into multiple forms. An incomprehensible babble left him as he was consumed by the same blue flame he used to make deals with those ill fated enough to trust him. 

The fire ate at him, his pleas and threats fading. The demon that had tortured Mabel and Dipper over the summer and had, in another life, been the reason for Stan and Ford’s resentment and loss, was defeated. 

Ford was unable to tear his gaze from the empty chambre of energy that was now dematerializing. 

“Ford? ...Ford?” 

“Huh?” The man turned to Stanley. 

“Can we let go now?” 

“What? Oh, yes, yes, everyone you can let go now.” He felt the other hand in his pull away, but Stan’s stayed clasping his. The grip was a comfort, and he made no effort to pull away. He felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him, as though he was suddenly hollow. Staring at the Zodiac he couldn’t comprehend that they had done it. They had succeeded. 

A softness touched his shoulder and Marisol embraced Ford, Stan following her example. Bookened by people he trusted, loved beyond anything else, Ford felt safe enough to break. He sucked in a ragged breath. The world whirled around him like a nightmarish merry-go-round, colors bleeding together. His mother and brother held his weight when his legs gave way, and they lowered him carefully to the ground. 

Twelve fingers scraped at the dirt, wedging it under fingernails. His stomach flip flopped and his breakfast splattered on the earth. Heaving, Ford wiped the bile from his mouth and stood. 

Mabel, Dipper, and the McGucket's had huddled together, all of them looking at him with worry. Audrey, face grey, whistled. 

“That was intense.” She said, and everyone joined her in tense, awkward laughter. The burst of nervous laughter became genuine, the relief of success sweeping over the room. 

Stan slung an arm around Ford’s shoulders, a proud grin on his face. It was the same grin Stan got when Ford won competitions in school, excelling their peers and impressing the adults in their life. There was no hint of jealousy in his face. 

Ford stared dumbly at his brother, and then a smile cracked across his face. He flung his arms around him, and although Stan staggered under the embrace he returned it wholeheartedly. They dragged Marisol into their hug, Mabel and Dipper running to join them. They laughed until they cried, the relief they felt absolving and absolute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. Was gonna do one more chapter where the twins return home, and they do return home, but I lost steam for this fic and will make no more updates to it. I'm done with it, it's done--the end. Phew.


End file.
